the:  CHILDREN 
OF^LIGHT 


FLORENCE :  CONVERSE 


BCRKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    LIGHT 


THE 


CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


BY 


FLORENCE    CONVERSE 


For  the  children  of  this  world 
are  in  their  generation  wiser 
than  the  children  of  light." 

St.  Luke  xvi.  8. 


BOSTON:  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1912 


All  rights  reserved 


chl 


To  VIDA   D.   SCUDDER 

WHO   GAVE   ME   HER  BOOK, 

"SOCIALISM    AND    SACRIFICE, 

THIS 

FOR  A  THANK-OFFERING. 


Tu  m'hai  di  servo  tratto  a  libertate 
per  tutte  quelle  vie,  per  tutti  i  modi, 
che  di  ci6  fare  avei  la  potestate." 

Dante,  //  Paradiso,  xxxi. 


128 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/childrenoflightOOconvrich 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

CELESTIAL   LIGHT 
CHAP. 

I.  The  Co-operative  Child  . 
II.  A  Franciscan  Revival     . 

III.  Concerning  Utopias 

IV.  Epistolary  and  Poetical 


PAGE 

3 
32 

74 
97 


BOOK  II 

common  day 

I. 

Lighting  the  Torch 

.     149 

II. 

The  Smoking  Fuse  . 

.     172 

III. 

Ttjumination    .... 

.201 

IV. 

Explosion          .... 

.     232 

V. 

Conflagration 

.     266 

VI. 

The  Gleam        .... 

.         .     285 

Vll 


BOOK  I 
CELESTIAL   LIGHT 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream." 

Wordsworth,  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality^ 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    LIGHT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   CO-OPERATIVE   CHILD 
I 

Out  of  doors  a  sharp  thunder-shower  was  stripping 
the  blossoms  off  the  young  peach  trees — their  first 
blossoms,  poor  little  things! — and  in  the  room  that 
used  to  be  the  dining-room  of  the  old  plantation 
house,  where  I  sat  absorbed  in  the  Autobiography 
of  Robert  Owen,  Uncle  Llewellyn  was  kicking  the 
printing  press.  Not  maliciously;  more  in  sorrow 
than  in  anger;  a  kick  co-operative,  attuned  to  the 
rest  of  our  life  at  New  Hope.  And  yet,  as  1  look 
back  upon  that  undoubtedly  noisy  hour,  I  hear  again 
only  the  ecstatic  silence  of  my  own  thoughts,  my 
soaring,  eleven-year-old,  little  girl  thoughts,  touched 
to  fire  by  the  pedagogic  and  commercial  achievements 
of  a  remarkable  little  Welsh  boy.  It  was  not  until 
I  had  got  up  and  crossed  the  room,  and  Uncle 
Llewellyn  had  apparently,  though  quite  inaudibly, 
said,  "  What?  "  that  the  noise  came  racketing  about 
my  ears  and  I  found  myself  shouting — louder  than 
the  thunder,  louder  than  the  sweeping  rain,  louder 
even  than  the  quarrelsome  rasp  and  rattle  and  bang 
of  the  unwilling  press: — 

3 


4  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Uncle  Lew,  when  I  and  the  colony  axe  a  little 
older  how  would  you  like  to  have  me  write  our 
autobiography?  " 

It  was  horrible  to  hear  my  modest,  tentative  pro- 
position go  bawUng  and  reverberating  around  the 
long  low  room.  Uncle  Lew,  who  was  more  than 
ordinarily  observant,  must  have  noticed  how  shocked 
and  scarlet  I  was,  for  he  stopped  kicking  long  enough 
to  say  with  his  widest,  most  sympathetic  smile: — 

"I  think  it's  a  great  idea,  Clara;  a  great  idea! 
Just  the  sort  of  idea  I  should  expect  to  come  out 
of  that  bright  Httle  red  head  of  yours. — There,  she's 
stuck  again.     Third  time  in  forty  minutes." 

And  I  had  to  get  him  the  oil-can  and  several  tools. 

"  A  great  idea,"  he  said  over  and  over  again  at 
intervals  as  he  screwed  and  tinkered  at  the  now 
silent  and  rigid  press.     "  A  great  idea." 

"  Of  course,  it  couldn't  be — it  couldn't — for 
quite  a  while  yet,"  I  ventured  presently,  when  the 
rain,  too,  had  hushed  and  I  could  speak  in  my 
ordinary  voice.  "  Quite  a  long,  long  time.  Because 
the  colony  is  still  so — so — young." 

"  Yes,"  Uncle  Llewellyn  agreed.  "I'd  wait  till 
it's  cut  its  two-year-old  teeth.  The  second  summer 
is  always  a  critical  time  for  babies.  But" — he 
paused  to  squint  into  the  machinery,  and  when  he 
spoke  again  the  whimsical  note  had  dropped  out  of 
his  voice — "  please  God  we'll  bring  this  one  safe 
through." 

I  wondered  if  he  would  like  me  to  say  Amen,  but 
before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  he  had  taken  up 
his  kindly  refrain — "  A  great  idea — a  great  idea 
for  a  Httle  girl." 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  5 

"  And  by  that  time  I  shall  be  able  to  set  it  up 
myself,  every  word,  italics  and  punctuation  and 
everything,  perhaps.  And  you  can  print  it,  Uncle 
Lew." 

"  Not  on  this  press,"  said  he  with  decision,  and 
he  gave  the  thing  an  experimental  kick.  It  slapped 
together  unexpectedly,  whereupon  I  returned  dis- 
creetly to  the  adventures  of  Robert  Owen.  The 
May  number  of  The  Message  of  New  Hope  was 
already  overdue  ten  days,  and  what  Uncle  Llewellyn 
was  pleased  to  call  my  fanatical  imagination, 
pictured  our  two  hundred  and  three  Northern  sub- 
scribers as  clamouring  hungrily  for  the  spiritual 
modicum  of  locusts  and  wild  honey  we  of  the 
wilderness  had  agreed  to  supply  monthly,  at  the 
subscription  rate  of  fifty  cents  for  the  year. 

These  two  hundred  and  three  Northern  sub- 
scribers were  much  in  my  thoughts.  I  could  say 
their  names  and  addresses  off  by  heart  in  alpha- 
betical order,  as  glibly  as  I  could  say  the  list  of  pre- 
positions or  the  English  chronological  tables;  for 
I  was  the  Subscription  Department  of  The  Message 
of  New  Hope,  I  addressed  all  the  wrappers,  and  all 
the  appeals,  and  stamped  all  the  receipts  with  the 
rubber  stamp.  There  were  two  kinds  of  subscribers, 
and  my  heart  beat  pitifully  and  anxiously  for  both. 
There  were  the  ones  who  wrote  Uncle  Lew  that 
going  out  of  the  world  was  not  the  way  to  convert 
the  world,  and  no  co-operative  colony  had  ever  justi- 
fied itself,  but  they  liked  our  spirit  and  they  hked 

our  paper,  and  they  enclosed  a  cheque  for etc. 

These  were  usually  college  professors  and  settlement 
workers.     And  there  were  the  others  who  said  that 


6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

although  they  didn't  know  whether  we  were  going 
at  it  the  right  way  or  not,  they  only  wished  they 
could  take  the  risk  and  come  and  join  us,  but  family 
claims,  or  health,  etc.  The  majority  of  these  were 
maiden  ladies.  Occasionally,  subscribers  who  had 
come  to  one  or  another  of  the  Southern  health 
resorts  to  escape  the  Northern  winter,  would  visit 
the  colony  for  a  day;  but  I  found  myself  vaguely 
disappointed  when  I  saw  them  face  to  face.  They 
used  a  great  many  laudatory  and  discriminating 
adjectives  about  the  colony,  but  they  were  in- 
variably uneasy  lest  the  train  might  not  stop  for 
them  when  we  flagged  it.  And  yet,  I  used  to 
reproach  myself;  for  the  one  who  fidgeted  most 
sent  back  a  hot  -  water  bottle  and  a  grey  blanket 
wrapper  from  the  city  for  father,  when  father  was 
dying.  And  another  sent  a  barrel  of  books  for  the 
library;  old  books  and  theological.  And  all  the 
subscribers  had  responded  cheerily,  even  gallantly, 
to  the  appeals — for  the  steam  wood-saw,  and  the 
shingle  machine,  and  the  cane-mill;  and  now  they 
were  trying  to  send  us  money  enough  to  buy  a  new 
press,  or  at  least  a  press  new  enough  not  to  have  to 
be  kicked  three  thousand  two  hundred  and  sixty- 
seven  times  whenever  we  printed  an  edition  of  The 
Message  of  New  Hope. 

Would  the  subscribers  buy  my  autobiography? 
I  mused,  leaning  my  chin  on  the  upper  edge  of 
volume  one  of  the  Life  of  Robert  Owen  and  gazing  out 
of  the  window,  across  the  wide  gallery,  to  the  dripping 
and  ravaged  peach  trees.  Perhaps  by  that  time 
there  would  be  more  than  two  hundred  and  three 
subscribers.     Perhaps  by  that  time — oh,  stupendous 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  7 

thought! — the  colony  would  no  longer  be  an  experi- 
ment. Perhaps  the  whole  world  would  be  the  colony. 
And  no  one  would  be  working  for  wages  any  more. 
And  competition  would  be  abolished. 

I  became  aware  that  the  edge  of  the  book  was 
hurting  my  chin. — Yes;  they  would  like,  then,  to 
know  about  the  early  days.  And  I  would  begin  by 
saying  that  I  was  the  child  of  co-operative  parents. 
That  would  win  the  public  at  the  start.  Uncle 
Llewellyn  considered  the  public  very  important,  I 
knew.  And  I  would  tell  how  my  father  always 
laughed  tenderly  and  said  that  my  mother  was  even 
more  of  a  crank  than  he  was.  But,  of  course,  people 
would  understand  that  neither  my  father  nor  my 
mother  was  really  a  crank.  And  I  would  tell, — 
no;  not  about  the  time  before  mother  died,  when  I 
was  Httle,  and  the  capitalist  press  wouldn't  print 
father's  brilliant  satires  on  Society,  and  mother  had 
to  work  for  wages.  Some  things  were  nobody's 
business,  father  used  to  say.  And  it  was  nobody's 
business  about  my  ancestors,  that  they  were  com- 
petitive; everybody's  ancestors  were  competitive, 
more  or  less;  and  if  mine  were  rather  more  than 
less — still,  it  was  not  my  fault. 

No;  I  would  begin  with  the  day  we  came  to  New 
Hope;  and  how  the  big  plantation  house  and  its 
offices,  and  Mr.  Baldwin's  three-room  house,  and  a 
two-room  shack,  were  all  the  colony;  but  there 
were  forty  people  in  the  population,  most  of  them 
sleeping  in  tents.  And  how  no  one  knew  anything 
about  father  and  me  except  that  father  said  he  was 
a  Socialist  and  I  was  a  Christian  and  he  thought  we 
could  team  it   as  Christian-Socialist  with   the  rest 


8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

of  them  if  they  were  willing.  And  how  Uncle 
LleweUyn — who  wasn't  Uncle  Llewellyn  then,  but 
Brother  Evans  —  clapped  his  hand  on  father's 
shoulder  and  said  — "  You've  come  to  the  right 
place  for  that  cough,  brother."  And  Aunt  Camilla, 
who  was  Sister  Evans,  said — "  Everybody  in  the 
colony  has  a  little  boy  or  girl  in  her  house  except 
me,  and  I've  been  jealous,  but  now  I'm  going  to 
have  a  little  girl,"  and  she  kissed  me.  And  how 
it  was  father  who  suggested  The  Message  of 
New  Hope,  and  was  the  first  editor  with  Uncle 
LleweUyn  to  co-operate  with  him.  And  how  three 
of  father's  brilliant  satires  on  Society  were  published 
in  the  Message,  but  after  that  we  had  to  stop  them 
because  some  of  the  other  brothers  in  the  colony 
were  very  evangelical,  and  some  of  the  Northern 
subscribers  were  unmarried  ladies;  and  Uncle 
Llewellyn  said  we  would  have  to  educate  our  public 
first.     But  father  died  before  the  public  was  educated. 

My  throat  contracted  suddenly  and  I  shoved  back 
my  chair  and  went  to  stand  by  the  window  with  my 
hands  clasped  tight  together.  Anyway,  I  did  not 
have  to  write  about  it  now. 

Several  colonists  were  coming  through  the  wet 
orchard  to  the  plantation  house.  I  heard  Aunt 
Camilla  unhitching  the  horse.  She  dropped  the 
harness  in  a  puddle  and  squealed.  After  a  few 
minutes  she  came  along  the  gallery  with  the  mail- 
bag  and  stopped  at  the  window  to  hand  me  the 
newspapers. 

"  Three  days*  mail  on  accoimt  of  the  wash-outs," 
she  said,  and  hurried  on  around  the  gallery  to  the 
front  room  that  used  to  be  the  old  plantation-house 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  9 

parlour  and  was  now  the  post  office,  and  the  polls, 
and  the  auditorium,  and,  on  rainy  nights  when 
they  couldn't  have  their  cots  on  the  gallery,  the 
bachelors'  hotel. 

"  Any  news?  "  asked  Uncle  Lew. 

I  glanced  at  the  headlines  of  the  uppermost 
newspaper  and  my  eye  was  caught  and  held  by  a 
familiar  name.  I  hesitated  a  moment  before  I 
answered,  not  very  loud : — 

"  There's  a  millionaire  dead." 

"What? — Never  mind,  I  can't  hear.  I'll  be 
through  this  job  in  ten  minutes  now,  if  she  holds 
out,  and  then  if  you're  a  real  good  httle  girl,  Clara, 
you  may  distribute  the  type."  He  smiled  quizzi- 
cally at  me  and  I  smiled  back  over  the  top  of  the 
newspaper  and  hoped  he  could  not  see  how  red  my 
face  was. 

I  carried  the  papers  to  the  table  and  shuffled  them 
over.  The  death  of  the  milHonaire  filled  the  front 
page  of  every  one. 

"  Jesse  Emery  Dead  at  New  York  Residence 
after  Illness  of  Ten  Days." 

''  Multi-millionaire  meets  his  End  like  a  Man. 
Grieving  Grandsons  summoned  from  Sunny  Italy 
arrive  on  Time."  And  there  was  a  picture  of  the 
grandsons. 

"  Wall  Street  Mourns  Death  of  Noted  Financier. 
Funeral  at  Old  Trinity.  Eminent  Bankers  and 
Railroad  Magnates  are  Pall-bearers." 

*'  Old  Copper  King  succumbs  to  Common  Lot. 
Pnemnonia  claims  One  of  America's  Grand  Old 
Men." 

I  had  turned  back  to  the  picture  of  the  grieving 


lo  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

grandsons  —  two  very  cheerful  -  looking  little  boys 
in  white  sailor-suits — whose  names,  it  seemed,  were 
Lucian  and  Cyrus,  and  was  reading  how  they  and 
their  widowed  mother — n6e  Pauline  Goddard,  and 
only  daughter  of  the  late  George  Goddard,  the 
eminent  corporation  lawyer — lived  in  a  villa  in  the 
land  of  the  olive  and  the  vine,  which,  by  putting 
two  and  two  together,  I  concluded  must  be  Sunny 
Italy — when  Helen  Baldwin  spoke  to  me  through 
the  window. 

I  jumped  and  Helen  laughed,  and  while  she  was 
laughing  I  did  what  was,  for  me,  a  very  queer  thing : 
I  faced  round  and  hoisted  myself  up  on  the  table 
with  a  sudden  spring  so  that  I  sat  on  the  pile  of 
newspapers.  And  I  was  not  a  Uttle  girl  who 
ordinarily  sat  on  tables.  Even  as  I  did  it  I  wondered 
if  Helen  would  notice;  but  although  Helen  was  two 
years  older  than  I  and,  every  one  said,  a  very  clever 
little  girl,  some  subtleties  escaped  her,  though  not 
many. 

"  How  far  have  you  got?  "  repeated  Helen,  still 
doubled  over  the  window-sill  with  laughter. 

"Got?"  said  I. 

"  Yes;  in  Robert.  You  know,  it's  my  turn 
to-morrow." 

Helen  and  I  were  reading  Robert  Owen  turn  and  turn 
about,  a  day  at  a  time;  but  this  was  my  first  day. 

"  Not  very  far,"  I  answered,  relieved. 

''Talk  about  conceit!  "  said  Helen. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so?  "  I  asked  anxiously. 

''Think!)" 

"  But  he  doesn't  brag  at  all,"  I  ventured.  "  You 
have  to  tell  the  truth  in  an  autobiography;    and  if 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  ii 

he  did  teach  school  when  he  was  nine  years  old,  of 
course  he  had  to  put  it  in/* 

"  Well,  I  don't  believe  he  was  so  particularly 
truthful  " — this  with  a  cynical  air. 

"Oh,  Helen!" 

"  There  were  the  apple  dumplings." 

"  I  haven't  come  to  them." 

"  Well,  you've  come  to  the  fiummerie?  " 

"  Wasn't  it  dreadful?  I  could  feel  it  scalding  him 
all  the  way  down,  when  I  was  reading." 

"  Nasty  stuff!  "  said  Helen. 

"  I  know,  you  hate  any  kind  of  mush,"  I  agreed 
sympathetically,  "but  he  seemed  to  like  it;  and 
boiled  flour  may  be  nicer  than  com  meal." 

"Pap!"  said  Helen,  making  an  awful  face. 
"Ogh!  I'm  glad  it  burnt  him.  And  then  he  said 
it  made  him  have  to  be  careful  all  the  rest  of  his  life 
about  what  he  ate.  And  then  when  he  was  a  grown-up 
young  man  and  his  housekeeper  would  come  in  to  ask 
him  what  he  would  have  for  dinner,  he  would  say 
an  apple  dumpling,  and  anything  else  she  pleased. 
Every  single  day  an  apple  dumpling.  I  don't  call 
that  a  weak  stomach." 

"  But  perhaps  they're  easy  to  digest,"  I  suggested 
meekly. 

"  Dumplings!  "  shrieked  Helen. 

But  I,  too,  was  getting  excited.  "  You  shall  not 
make  him  out  so  bad,"  I  cried.  "  You  are  only 
doing  it  to  argue,  anyway;  you  know  you  are.  And 
if  he  had  been  reaUy  untruthful  he  wouldn't  have 
said  anything  about  the  apple  dumplings  at  all. 
He  didn't  have  to.  It  was  his  own  autobio- 
graphy." 


12  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Then  you  think  he  wasn't  a  story-teller,  he  was 
just  a  fool?  "  Helen  asked  sweetly. 

"You  know  he  wasn't,  Helen  Baldwin;  and 
besides,  I  never  say  that  word  about  any  one." 
Tears  of  rage  sprang  to  my  eyes. 

"  Now  who's  the  prig?  "  laughed  Helen. 

"  You  only  like  to  talk  so  as  to  get  the  better  of 
people,"  I  murmured.  ''  You  don't  care  about 
anything  really  at  all." 

She  grinned  teazingly  at  me  through  the  window 
and  then,  on  a  sudden,  her  face  clouded.  It  was  a 
broad,  rather  chubby  face,  with  a  forehead  wide  but 
low,  and  an  impudent,  uptilting  nose.  The  mouth 
was  large,  clean-lipped,  and  very  red,  a  mocking 
mouth,  and  almost  always  merry.  But  for  the  eyes 
the  face  might  have  been  shallow,  even  hard;  they 
were  a  clear  brown,  those  eyes,  alert  without  being 
sharp ;  not  eyes  that  flashed.  It  was  Helen's  mouth 
that  flashed;  the  eyes  were  steady.  Only  two  or 
three  times  in  our  life  has  the  Helen  of  the  eyes 
spoken  out  to  me,  but  even  when  we  were  little  girls 
and  the  every-day  Helen  had  tormented  me  almost 
beyond  endurance,  I  knew — as  surely  as  I  knew  that 
Robert  Owen  was  truthful — that  the  other  Helen  was 
there,  as  much  in  earnest  about  life  as  I  was,  and 
much  more  unselfish  and  helpful  with  her  elders.  I 
think  she  knew  I  knew  it,  and  it  exasperated  her. 

One  thing  I  never  did  know,  and  that  was  how 
she  would  teaze  me  next.  Now,  when  the  smile 
faded  from  the  impish  mouth,  leaving  it  only  scornful 
and  aggressive,  and  sullen  eyehds  hid  the  eyes,  I 
waited,  braced  for  conflict. 

"  Well,  there  is  one  thing  I  don't  care  for,"  she 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  13 

said  with  sulky  deliberation,  "  and  that's  this 
colony." 

The  enormity  of  this  statement  was  such  that  I 
had  nothing  to  say. 

*'  Mother  says  I  may  go  up  North  and  live  with 
sister  if  I  want  to,"  she  continued,  when  the  silence 
had  ceased  to  be  impressive.  "  I  could  go  to  a 
high  school  for  nothing,  and  begin  to  get  ready  to 
earn  my  own  living.  And  maybe  I'll  go  to  college. 
Sister  has  written,  and  she  has  a  splendid  place  on 
a  newspaper  now,  and  I  wouldn't  cost  much,  and 
we'd  have  a  little  fiat " 

''Helen,  Helen,  you  wouldn't  do  it!"  I  cried. 
"  Just  because  we  don't  have  anything  but  mush 
and  cow-peas!  " 

"  Mother  says  I  may  if  I  want  to,"  she  reiterated, 
tracing  patterns  on  the  window-sill. 

"  Well,  your  father  won't,"  I  retorted. 

"  Father  believes  like  Tolstoy  does,  you  know. 
He's  a  non-resistant.     He  can't  say  anything." 

*'  He  said  a  lot  when  Mr.  Hobart  'most  had  the 
colony  sold  up  for  debt.  It  was  your  father  that 
wanted  to  tar  and  feather  him,  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Uncle  Lew " 

**  That  was  because  he  was  mad,"  said  Helen; 
"  and  everybody  was  mad,  and  they  had  a  right  to 
be.  That  Mr.  Hobart  was  nothing  but  a  tramp 
when  he  came  here,  and  he  didn't  do  a  Hck  of  work 
all  the  three  months  he  stayed.  And  then  to  try  to 
sell  us  up  so  he  could  come  in  for  an  equal  share  of 
what  was  left — and  it  never  was  any  of  it  his  in  the 
first  place!  He  was  a  regular  Judas. — But,"  she 
added  calmly,  "  father  won't  resist  mother." 


14  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  And  you'll  be  a  Judas,  too,  Helen  Baldwin,'*  I 
shouted,  "  a  mean,  selfish  Judas " 

"Hoo,  hoo,  hoo!"  called  Uncle  lAeweUyn.  "Is 
that  the  voice  of  wrath  I  hear?  "  He  had  just 
stopped  the  press. 

The  voice  of  wrath  was  abruptly  hushed.  I 
glared  at  Helen  and  Helen  wrinkled  her  nose  at  me. 
Aunt  Camilla  came  into  the  room  with  letters  in  her 
hands. 

"  Haven't  you  gone  home  yet  with  that  mail, 
Helen?  "  she  remarked. 

And  Helen  said — "  No'm,"  and  went. 

I  slid  off  the  table  and  was  turning  again  to  the 
grieving  grandsons  when  I  saw  Aunt  Camilla  silently 
lay  three  letters  on  the  press  before  Uncle  Llewellyn. 
His  eyes  went  from  one  to  another  of  the  letters  and 
then  sought  the  eyes  of  Aunt  Camilla.  His  eye- 
brows went  up  the  least  bit,  interrogatively;  her 
face  remained  impassive,  non-committal.  Evidently 
I  was  not  needed  at  this  crisis.  I  picked  up  the  top 
newspaper  and  went,  as  unostentatiously  as  I  could, 
across  the  room  to  the  gallery  door;  but  as  I  turned 
the  knob  Uncle  Llewellyn  said : — 

'*  You  needn't  run  away,  Clara.  There's  a  letter 
for  you  here." 


II 

As  I  came  back.  Uncle  Llewellyn  sht  one  of  the 
letters  and  began  to  read  it,  and  he  had  scarcely 
begun  when  his  eyes  and  his  mouth  opened  quite 
wide  simultaneously. 

"Emery!"  he  ejaculated.     "Why,   of  course!" 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  15 

And  then — *'  Why,  Clara!  *'  and  he  stared  at  me,  his 
face  one  round  O  of  amazement.  And  I  stood 
shrinking  before  him,  the  unhappy  red  creeping  up 
over  neck  and  cheek  and  forehead.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  me  that  the  letters  could  be  about — that. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  me  to  him,  and  I 
could  feel  that  he  was  trying  to  keep  the  excitement 
out  of  his  kind  voice: — 

**  Didn't  you  say  something  about  a  dead  million- 
aire a  while  back,  Clara?  " 

I  nodded  miserably. 

"  Well,  do  you  know  who  he  was?  *' 

Uncle  Lew's  question  was  purely  rhetorical,  but  1 
was  too  mortified  to  appreciate  the  fine  distinctions 
of  language. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  very  low;  and  Aunt  Camilla  bent 
down  to  hear.     "  Yes;   he  was  my  great-uncle." 

'*  You  knew!" — Uncle  Llewellyn  held  me  away 
from  him  and  gaped  at  me.  "  You  knew!  " — This 
seemed  to  amaze  him  even  more  than  the  letter. 

Aunt  Camilla  had  snatched  that  up  and  was  read- 
ing it  breathlessly.  *'  Old  Jesse  Emery!  "  she  cried. 
"That  man! — Why,  Clara!  Why  have  you  never 
told  us?  " 

I  hung  my  head.  I  hid  my  face  in  my  two  hands. 
Uncle  Lew  patted  me  gently. 

"  I  was  so  ashamed  of  him,"  I  whispered. 

Aunt  Camilla  was  excitable  and  not  very  strong; 
she  gave  a  queer  sort  of  explosive  screech  and  began 
to  cry  and  laugh,  both  together,  violently.  Uncle  Lew 
shook  her  and  remonstrated  with  her,  and  said : — 

"  Camilla,  Camilla,  you  mustn't !  Brace  up ! — 
You're  making  her  cry! — Camilla!  " 


i6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

And  after  I  had  brought  her  a  glass  of  water  salted 
with  my  tears  she  quieted  down,  except  for  an  occa- 
sional hiccough,  and  made  me  sit  in  her  lap  and 
be  loved  and  comforted  while  Uncle  Llewellyn  read 
one  of  the  other  letters  through  slowly,  murmuring, 
"  My,  my,  my!  "  under  his  breath  as  he  read.  When 
he  had  finished  he  took  up  the  third  letter  and  put 
it  into  my  hands. 

*'  This  is  to  you,"  he  said.  It  was  edged  with 
black. 

I  was  feeling  happier  with  Aunt  Camilla's  arm 
around  me ;  and  besides,  although  I  was  eleven  years 
old,  this  was  the  first  letter  I  had  ever  received.  It 
was  fat,  and  the  handwriting  was  a  woman's.  On 
the  back  there  was  a  blob  of  black  seaUng-wax  sealed 
with  a  monogram.  Uncle  Llewelljm  handed  me  his 
penknife  to  sHt  the  envelope.  I  took  it  with  a  rising 
sense  of  importance.  After  all,  perhaps  a  great- 
uncle  need  not  be  considered  such  a  very  near 
relation. 

*'  I  suppose  they  are  inviting  me  to  the  funeral," 
I  remarked.  "  It  is  very  poHte  of  them,  but  I  don't 
beheve  they  really  expect  me  to  come;  and  I  can't, 
anyway,  because  I  haven't  enough  money  for  the 
raUroad  fare." 

The  queerest  look  passed  over  Uncle  Llewellyn's 
face.  "  The  fimeral  is  over  by  now,"  he  said. 
"  The  papers  are  late  on  account  of  the  wash-outs, 
you  know,  and  these  two  letters  are  later  because 
they  were  first  sent  to  Judge  Acton  over  in  Mobile. 
He  expected  to  come  himself,  but  he's  laid  up.  This 
is  what  he  says — I  think  I  might  as  well  read  the 
letter,"  he  looked   a  question   at  Aunt  Camilla — 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  17 

"  This  is  what  he  says — you'll  have  to  keep  these 
letters  carefully,  Clara, — he  says: — 

"  *  Dear  Evans, — You  New  Hopers  do  keep  me 
jumping,  I  must  say.  My  latest  information  con- 
cerning your  colony  comes  to  me  from  my  old  friend 
Daniel  Packard,  senior  member  of  the  law  firm  of 
Packard  and  Estabrook,  New  York.  It  seems  that 
the  pretty  little  red-headed  girl  I  took  such  a  shine 
to  the  last  time  I  came  out  to  see  you  about  that 
scamp  Hobart,  is  some  punkins.  I  remember  you 
talked  to  me  about  her  future  with  a  good  deal  of 
anxiety  when  we  were  facing  the  imminent  possi- 
bility of  the  colony's  going  bust.  But  there's  no 
need  to  lie  awake  nights  over  her;  she  is  the  grand- 
niece  of  the  multi-millionaire,  Jesse  Emery.  The 
old  gentleman  only  found  out  her  whereabouts  a 
few  days  before  he  died.  She  is  Cyrus  Emery's 
grand  -  daughter.  Cyrus  died  in  the  civil  war. 
Strict  legal  etiquette  would  demand  that  I  bring  you 
the  news  in  person,  but  I  broke  my  leg  last  Saturday 
off  in  the  swamp,  shooting  ducks,  and  as  I  feel  fairly 
certain  that  you  won't  kidnap  the  young  lady  before 
I  can  get  round  on  crutches  to  make  my  formal  call, 
I  am  forwarding  a  couple  of  letters  that  ought  not 
to  be  delayed. 

**  *  As  for  the  affair  of  the  receivership — I  have  your 
good  letter  of  the  30th,  but  you  didn't  need  to 
thank  me,  it  was  a  perfectly  plain  case.  Hobart 
hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  on.  I  only  wish  I  could  feel 
I  had  done  something  more  than  merely  postpone 
the  evil  day,  for  you  all  certainly  are  the  most  en- 
dearing set  of  cranks  that  ever  invented  a  Utopia. 


i8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

But  I'm  afraid  it's  got  to  come,  unless  you  can  get 
somebody  to  back  you  up  and  lift  that  mortgage. 
However,  this  is  ex  officio — you  know  your  own 
business  best. — Faithfully  yours, 

'Edward  Carter  Acton. 

"  '  P.S. — Of  course,  you  understand  that  if  anything 
did  happen  to  that  child  they  could  make  it  mighty 
hot  for  you  and  me.*  '* 

**  Happen  to  me?  "  said  I,  but  Aunt  Camilla  inter- 
rupted to  ask  if  I  had  ever  seen  my  great-uncle. 

No.  But  there  were  pictures  of  him  in  every 
paper,  and  of  the  two  little  boys,  his  grandsons,  and 
their  mother.     I  handed  over  the  paper. 

**  She  was  actually  reading  all  about  it  without 
saying  a  word,"  said  Aunt  Camilla.  "  Why,  Clara! 
Didn't  you  mean  to  tell  us  anything?  " 

"No,"  said  I,  wretched  but  firm. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  her  letter  were  from  some 
of  them,"  suggested  Uncle  Lew.  "  This  other,  to 
me,  is  from  the  lawyers,  a  business  letter,  important, 
but  I  shall  have  to  explain  it  to  you,  Clara; — better 
read  what  your  family  have  to  say  first." 

Family! — I  looked  at  him. 

"Slip  the  blade  under,  this  way — so.  No;  you 
must  do  it;   I  can't  open  your  letter." 

The  fat,  black-edged  envelope  contained  several 
letters,  and  Uncle  Lew  picked  out  the  one  written 
by  the  hand  that  had  addressed  the  envelope.  I 
had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  reading  the  gigantic, 
see-saw  writing,  but  I  discovered  that  it  was  written 
by  a  grown  person  who  signed  herself  my  Cousin 
Pauline,  and  who  was  a  good  deal  perturbed  by  the 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  19 

fact  that  I  had  been  living  alone  among  strangers 
for  six  months. 

'*  Strangers!  '*  said  I,  clutching  Aunt  Camilla. 

"  But  now,"  said  the  letter,  "  you  must  come  at 
once.  If  there  is  no  one  to  bring  you  we  will  send 
for  you.'* 

I  looked  at  Uncle  Llewellyn  uneasily.  "  How  shall 
we  explain  that  I  can't  come?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  sounds  like  a  really  sweet  woman,"  said 
Aunt  Camilla  in  a  tone  of  relief. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Uncle  Llewellyn,  "  and  considering 
that  they  are  her  sons,  she  might — you  know " 

Aunt  Camilla  seemed  to  understand. 

*'  How  shall  we  explain — "  I  began  again. 

"  Ho,  ho!  look  at  this!  "  Uncle  Lew  interrupted. 
The  second  letter  had  a  Kate  Greenaway  boy  and  girl 
in  blue  and  green  skipping  across  the  top  of  the  page. 
The  handwriting  was  conscientious  but  wobbly. 

"  My  dear  cousine,"  it  began,  "  Mother  says  you 
are  our  cousine  and  you  are  going  to  live  with  us" 
now." 

"No!  "  said  I,  and  the  little  letter  shook  in  my 
hands. 

"  We  are  going,"  prompted  Uncle  Llewellyn. 

**  We  are  going,"  I  continued,  "  up  to  the 
montagnes.  Grandfather  said  we  have  lived  long 
enough  in  Europe.  Mother  says  you  and  I  must 
like  each  other  because  I  am  named  Cyrus  for  your 
grandfather.  It  is  an  old  family  name.  It  is  also 
the  name  of  a  great  king,  but  he  was  a  heathen. 
It  is  not  as  bad  as  to  be  named  Nebbuchuddnezzzar. 
Lucian  has  the  intention  to  be  creamated,  but  I 
have  not.     I  do  not  wish  to  ressemble  to  grand- 


20  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

father  in  that  way. — Je  te  souhaite  le  bonheur,  my 
cousine.    Toujours  a  toi,  Cyrus  Emery." 

"  All  of  a  sudden  it  doesn't  mean  anything,"  said  I. 

Uncle  Llewellyn  laughed,  and  explained  that  it 
was  French.  He  and  Aunt  Camilla  together  trans- 
lated it,  rather  lamely,  and  before  they  had  finished 
the  big  plantation  bell  rang  for  supper,  and  we  read 
the  third  letter  in  a  hurry.     It  left  us  gasping. 

"  To  Clara  our  beloved  cousin  at  New  Hope, 
greeting,"  it  began. 

*'  Dearest  sister  in  Christ  Jesus,  I  am  so  glad  your 
name  is  Clara  because  it  fits  in  exactly  with  the  new 
play  Cyrus  and  I  are  playing  since  seven  months. 
It  is  a  play,  but  also  it  is  a  realism,  for  we  shall 
become  it  when  we  are  grown  up.  I  am  longing  to 
explain  it  to  you  now,  but  I  will  keep  it  till  you  come. 
Her  name  was  Clara;  i  fioretti  ;  now  can  you  guess? 
I  am  sure  yes.  The  difficulty  is  to  find  lepers. 
Mother  says  there  are  no  wolves  in  the  mountains, 
but  grandfather  told  me  there  are  sometimes  bears, 
and  those  perhaps  we  can  make  our  little  brothers. 
We  shall  have  a  beautiful  summer. 

**  I,  Brother  Lucian,  with  the  will  to  kiss  your  feet, 
do  beseech  you  come  quickly. 

"  P.S. — I  did  not  make  up  the  beginning  and  end. 
They  used  to  write  that  way  in  those  days,  you 
know." 

Never  had  I  heard  Uncle  Llewellyn  laugh  so  loud 
and  so  long. 

"What  under  the  canopy!"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Camilla.     "  His  mother  never  read  it,  that's  certain." 

"  It  sounds  like  an  acrostic,"  said  I. 


^j& 


%: 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  21 

Uncle  Lew  bent  back  my  head  and  looked  into 
my  face  quizzically.  "  They're  cousins  of  yours,  aU 
right,  Clara,"  he  said.  *'  I  can  detect  a  strong  family 
likeness." 


Ill 

The  light  was  dim  and  hazy  in  our  new  co-opera- 
tive dining-room.  The  six  bracket-lamps  made  their 
appeal  primarily  to  the  sense  of  smell.  Moreover, 
the  kitchen  chimney  had  been  built  by  Brother 
Barton,  who  earned  his  living,  when  he  worked  for 
wages,  by  regulating  the  pitch  of  organ  pipes;  and 
it  would  seem  that  the  draught  in  an  organ  pipe  and 
the  draught  in  a  chimney  are  not  governed  by  the 
same  law  of  physics,  for  Brother  Barton's  sensitive 
ear  had  not  enabled  him  to  make  our  kitchen  chimney 
draw.  He,  however,  had  a  strong  feeling  that  the 
fault  lay  in  the  swing-door  between  the  kitchen  and 
the  dining-room.  Helen's  father,  who  had  occupied 
the  chair  of  homiletics  in  a  western  theological 
seminary  before  he  became  a  non-resistant,  had 
adjusted  this  door  to  swing;  and  it  swung,  when 
once  set  going,  as  faithfully  as  the  pendulum  of  an 
eight-day  clock.  At  first,  some  of  us  thought  that 
Helen's  father  had  stumbled  upon  the  secret  of 
perpetual  motion.     But  he  hadn't,  quite. 

The  door  was  swinging  now,  as  Uncle  Llewellyn 
and  Aunt  Camilla  and  I  came  into  the  dining-room. 
And  Sister  Hetty  Pugh  was  frying  com  meal  batter- 
cakes  in  the  kitchen.  And  our  three  co-operative 
invalids  and  Grandfather  Pugh,  who  was  eighty- 
seven,  were  coughing.    And  all  the  other  members 


22  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

of  the  colony,  of  whom  there  were  at  that  time  fifty- 
two,  including  fourteen  children,  were  wiping  their 
eyes  or  drinking  water.  Helen,  armed  with  the 
water  pitcher,  was  refilling  tumblers.  As  I  look 
back,  Helen  is  always  doing  some  commonplace, 
helpful  thing,  in  those  days — as  now — and  scorning 
herself  for  doing  it. 

**  This  is  the  third  time  I've  filled  them,"  she 
grumbled.  "  Ask  Uncle  Lew  to  ask  mother  if  I  can 
come  over  after  supper  and  help  wrap  the  Message. 
Something  exciting! — I  am — you  know  what! — A 
letter  from  sister." 

I  nodded  soberly,  and  Uncle  Lew,  who  had 
heard,  gave  me  a  curious  look,  as  if  he  found  me 
interesting. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  him,  slipping  into  my 
chair. 

He  pushed  me  up  to  the  table  and  sat  down  beside 
me.  "  I  was  wondering  how  much  of  your  news  we 
should  have  known  if  your  family  had  not  written," 
he  said,  smiling,  and  watching  me. 

I  met  his  eyes  helplessly  but  said  nothing.  What 
was  there  to  say?  And  just  then  Sister  Pugh 
created  a  diversion  by  bursting  through  the  smoke 
with  a  platter  of  fresh  cakes. 

"  These  are  the  last,"  she  proclaimed. 

"  Kingdom  come!  "  thundered  Grandfather  Pugh. 
"  Were  you  making  that  infernal  smoke?  If  I  had 
known " — he  choked,  gasped.  His  daughter  set 
down  the  platter  hastily,  and  led  him  coughing  and 
gesticulating  from  the  dining-room. 

"  And  they're  made  without  either  sour  milk  or 
eggs,"  she  called  back  in  a  tone  of  triumph. 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  23 

"  No  need  to  tell  us  that/'  murmured  Brother 
Nicholas  Richards,  who  sat  at  my  left  hand. 

Brother  Richards  was  one  of  our  young  bachelors; 
so  young,  indeed,  that  Helen,  whose  bump  of  venera- 
tion was  small,  always  spoke  of  him  to  me  as 
Nicholas.  He  had  studied  architecture  in  Paris, 
and  when  he  joined  the  colony  he  felt  that  New 
Hope  was  his  architectural  opportunity.  He  had 
visions  of  a  city  which  should  set  the  standard  for 
municipal  architecture  for  all  time.  When  he  talked 
about  it  I  used  to  be  reminded  of  the  city  in  the 
Apocalypse,  except  that  his  specifications  and 
measurements  were  less  definite  than  those  of  St. 
John.  But  although  he  had  been  with  us  since 
October,  and  this  was  almost  June,  the  city  was  not 
built.  And  now  he  was  going  away.  He  said  the 
new  co-operative  dining-room  was  more  than  he  could 
bear — architecturally.  I  was  sorry  to  have  him  go. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  ought  to  wait  at  least  a  year. 

The  really  heart-breaking  thing  about  life  at  New 
Hope,  to  me  at  the  age  of  eleven,  was  not  that  we 
often  did  not  have  enough  to  eat,  not  that  we  were 
short  of  blankets — always  I  have  been  callous  in 
regard  to  people  who  did  not  have  food  or  clothes; 
it  is  one  of  my  limitations,  I  know — but  that  any 
one  should  come  to  us  enthusiastic  and  expectant, 
and  go  away  in  dejection  or  contempt.  And  this 
so  often  happened.  Could  there  be  anything  wrong 
with  co-operation  ?  I  used  to  wonder,  fearfully.  But 
Uncle  Lew  was  very  consoling  on  this  point :  he  said 
the  trouble  was  with  human  nature  —  his  human 
nature  and  Mr.  Hobart's  and  everybody's.  It  always 
seemed  to  me  very  noble  of  Uncle  Lew  to  put  his 


24  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

human  nature  in  the  same  class  with  Mr.  Hobart's; 
and  it  seems  so  still.  Concerning  the  defection  of 
Brother  Richards,  Uncle  Lew  was  also  consoling. 
He  said  it  was  just  as  well.  He  said  that  Brother 
Richards  would  have  to  build  a  few  Biltmores,  and 
marble  sky-scrapers,  and  trust  companies,  in  order 
to  be  able  to  appreciate  the  possibilities  of  a  plain 
pine  board  and  glorify  the  outlines  of  a  packing-box. 
It  was  Brother  Richards  himself  who  called  our  new 
co-operative  dining-room  a  packing-box. 

He  helped  me  to  the  last  two  cakes  on  the  plotter. 

*'  One,  please,"  said  I  politely. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  reassured  me.  "  The  rest  of  us 
had  gorged  ourselves  before  you  came  in.  We  had 
as  many  as  three  apiece." 

Uncle  Llewellyn  had  had  none.  I  looked  up  at 
him  and  lifted  a  cake  tentatively,  but  he  said — 
"Don't  you  dare!  " 

He  was  eating  combread  without  butter,  and 
dried  peaches.  As  soon  as  we  could  pay  the  lawyer 
for  defending  us  against  Mr.  Hobart  we  were  going 
to  have  meat  again,  occasionally,  and  butter,  some- 
times. Eleven  people  had  gone  away  from  the 
colony  since  Mr.  Hobart  tried  to  betray  us.  Still, 
it  was  not  all  his  fault.  The  climate  was  pleasanter 
in  winter  than  in  summer. 

Grandfather  Pugh  came  back  to  his  seat,  glared  at 
the  empty  platter  and  attacked  his  dried  peaches 
resentfully  with  a  three-pronged  fork.  The  old 
gentleman  was  a  member  of  three  peace  societies, 
one  of  them  international,  but  his  attitude  toward 
the  minor  exigencies  of  life  was  distinctly  miUtant. 
It  was  he  who  suggested  to  Helen's  father  that  Mr, 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  25 

Hobart  be  tarred  and  feathered.  He  was  the  only 
member  of  the  colony  who  ever  said  damn;  I  mean, 
of  course,  in  my  hearing. 

Warned  by  the  lull  that  inevitably  preceded  the 
pushing  back  of  chairs,  I  was  hastily  spooning  up 
my  last  mouthful  of  peaches,  when  Helen's  father 
arrested  our  attention  by  knocking  on  his  table. 
Helen's  father  always  read  the  notices  to  the  colony. 
He  was  a  little  man,  mild-eyed,  be-spectacled, 
meagre,  but  his  voice — he  was  wont  to  refer  to  it  as 
his  organ,  as  if  he  were  unicellular — would  have  filled 
St.  Peter's  easily.  At  least,  so  Brother  Richards  said, 
who  had  been  there.  Brother  Richards  and  Helen's 
father  did  not  get  on  very  well  together.  Brother 
Richards  always  spoke  of  him  as  the  organic  hole. 
But  Helen's  father  was  very  much  in  earnest  about 
the  colony. 

"  My  first  notice,"  he  trumpeted  now,  through  the 
odorous  haze,  **  will  give  us  all  encouragement.  I 
have  a  letter  from  some  one  in  Maine,  who  signs 
herself  '  A  Friend  '  —  I  say  '  herself  *  advisedly  — 
and  sends  us  two  dollars  towards  the  interest  on  our 
mortgage." 

Aunt  Camilla  drank  water  hastily,  and  choked. 

"  Our  next  news  is  not  so  happy."  Helen's  father 
paused. 

Uncle  Lew  looked  up  at  him  quickly;  looked 
interrogatively  across  me  at  Brother  Richards,  who 
lifted  his  eyebrows  and  shook  his  head  in  token  of 
ignorance. 

"  Not  so  happy.  But  we  must  remember  in 
whose  hands  we  are.  Our  dear  Brother  Ashley, 
whose  merry  face  we  have  missed  at  table  these  two 


26  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

days  past,  is  very  ill  with  a  fever.  We  don't  know 
what  fever;   we  hope  not  typhoid " 

**  Glory,  what  an  idiot!"  muttered  Brother 
Richards. 

Uncle  Lew — one  hand  grasping  the  table,  his 
chair  hanging  backward  on  its  hind  legs — was  trying 
to  reach  Helen's  father  with  a  suppressive  eye.  But 
Helen's  father  was  near-sighted ;  he  went  on  booming 
through  the  sickish  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  the 
dining-room. 

"  We  hope  not,  but  until  we  know,  we  think  it 
best  that  no  one  should  drink  water  that  has  not 
been  boiled.  I  do  not  need  to  ask  those  who  believe 
in  prayer  to  pray  for  our  dear  brother.  And  now, 
shall  we  follow  our  usual  custom  and  speed  the 
parting  guest?  Brother  Richards,  whose  bUthe 
spirit " 

"Forgive  me,  Shelley!"  whispered  Brother 
Richards. 

"  Has  done  so  much  to  cheer  our  winter,  is  to 
leave  us  to-morrow  to  carry  the  leaven  of  co-opera- 
tion into  the  great  world  of  competition " 

"Nixie;  competition  for  ever!"  said  Brother 
Richards  imder  his  breath. 

"  Shall  we  drink  our  usual  toast " 

"Hold  on,  Dr.  Baldwin!  "  Brother  Richards  had 
sprung  to  his  feet.  "  Has  this  water  been  boiled  ?  " — 
Tumblers  were  hastily  set  down.  "  And  besides, 
I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  leave  you  to-morrow;  the 
cheque  I  expected  to-night  didn't  come." 

Everybody  laughed,  but  in  a  shaky  sort  of  way, 
quickly  smothered  in  the  raucous  scrape  of  chairs. 

Outside  the  door  there  was  not  the  usual  linger- 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  27 

ing  and  chatter.  Here  and  there  irresolute  people 
stood  about,  as  if  they  wanted  to  say  something  but 
were  not  sure  it  would  be  wise.  One  or  two  made 
a  motion  to  detain  Uncle  Lew,  but  he  went  straight 
away,  through  the  dusky  orchard,  with  Aunt 
Camilla  at  his  elbow  and  me  at  his  heels. 

"Did  you  know  about  this,  Lew?  '*  asked  Aunt 
Camilla. 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  have  given  that  notice 
if  I  had?" 

"  Great  thing,  initiative,"  Brother  Richards 
observed.  He  had  caught  up  with  us,  and  Helen 
came  panting  behind  him. 

"  I  can  stay  till  eight,"  she  volunteered.  *'  Why 
didn't  you  wait  for  me?  " 

"Oh,  Nick,  is  that  you?"  said  Uncle  Lew. 
"  You're  the  one  I  want  to  see.  Do  you  go  to 
Boston,  or  only  to  New  York?  Would  you  be 
willing  to  go  a  bit  farther — say  New  Hampshire — 
if  I  could  make  it  worth  your  while?  Perhaps  New 
York  will  do.  It  depends.  I  may  need  some  one 
to  take —  Children,  you  can  run  ahead  and  light 
the  big  lamp  if  you'll  be  very  careful.  Helen  do 
the  lighting  while  Clara  holds  the  chimney." 

"  I  am  going!  "  whispered  Helen  excitedly,  as  we 
began  to  run.  "  Especially  now  there's  typhoid 
fever." 

We  ran  on  silently,  stumbling  sometimes  in  the 
rough  orchard  grass. — Typhoid! — Perhaps  now  that 
I  had  cousins  Uncle  Lew  would  find  a  way  to  send 
me  to  them  for  fear  of  the  fever.  Behind  us  Brother 
Richards  shouted  suddenly — "Not  those  Emerys? 
—Why,  I  met—"  and  then  his  voice  fell.— But  there 


28  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

was  no  money,  fortunately. — Unless — the  words  of 
Judge  Acton's  letter  seemed  to  rush  into  my  heart — 
"  There's  no  need  to  lie  awake  nights  over  her;  she 
is  the  grand-niece  of  the  multi-millionaire,  Jesse 
Emery."  The  whole  situation  was  suddenly 
illumined  by  a  frightful  light. — But  I  would  not  go. 

And  now  another  astonishing  thing  happened, 
Helen  flung  her  arm  around  my  neck  and  kissed  me. 
It  was  an  inopportune  moment  for  affection;  we 
were  going  up  the  gallery  steps,  and  we  lost  our 
balance  and  fell  up  them  and  over  each  other  and 
bumped  our  knees. 

"  I  will  make  a  list  of  the  things  I  do,  so  you  can 
do  them.  Somebody  must.  Grandfather  Pugh  has 
to  have  a  cup  of  hot  milk  and  water  every  day  at 
eleven — don't  forget; — mostly  water  unless  the  cows 
give  more.  And  I  wash  Mrs.  Hardy's  dishes  for  her 
every  morning — and — I'll  write  them  down.  Oh, 
I  am  going!  '*  she  cried  in  an  angry,  defiant  voice. 
''Where  are  the  matches?  Where  is  the  lamp? — 
Clara,  you  must  never  forget  about  drinking  the 
boiled  water." 


IV 

Whenever  I  hear  frogs  croaking  at  night  my  throat 
closes  and  I  know  again  the  anguish  of  driven  help- 
lessness that  tortured  me  in  that  soft  southern 
evening  as  I  sat  close  beside  Uncle  Lew  on  the 
plantation-house  steps.  I  feel  again  the  jasmine- 
scented  darkness  and  Uncle  Lew's  arm  around  me 
pressing  me  against  his  side.  I  hear  the  hum  of 
a   foraging  mosquito  and  the  loud,  cracked  chorus 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  29 

of  wakeful  frogs;  not  literary  hylas  rhythmically 
poetising  in  the  trees,  but  frogs,  the  practical  citizens 
of  the  swamp  in  noisy  caucus,  choosing  Patrick, 
Patrick,  Patrick,  Patrick,  Patrick,  by  direct  primary, 
for  some  municipal  office,  with  an  occasional  boom- 
ing note  for  Paul.  In  the  goldfish  pond  of  our  villa 
in  Umbria  the  frogs  are  osculatory.  They  make 
long,  kissing  sounds,  like  the  drawing  of  a  cow's  heel 
out  of  the  mud,  such  as  one  would  expect  from  senti- 
mental Italian  batrachians;  but  in  America,  in  the 
South,  on  summer  nights,  they  say  Patrick,  Patrick, 
Patrick,  patiently,  incessantly,  without  excitement, 
in  a  persistent  monotone. 

Helen  had  run  home  across  the  orchard,  and  Aunt 
Camilla  had  gone  with  Nicholas  to  see  the  sick  man. 
The  Messages  were  in  the  mail-bag  ready  for  the 
morning  train. 

"  Uncle  Lew,"  said  I,  presently,  "  what  did  Judge 
Acton  mean  when  he  said  you  needn't  lie  awake 
nights  over  me?  " 

Uncle  Lew  grunted,  and  it  was  then  that  he  put 
his  arm  around  me.  '*  Trust  you  for  coming  straight 
to  the  point,"  he  said. 

I  waited. 

**  WeU,  you  see,  Clara,"  he  began  at  last,  "  it's 
this  way :  your  great-uncle  was  a  very  rich  man,  and 
he's  left  you  some  of  his  money." 

'*  Enough  to  lift  the  mortgage?  "  I  asked. 

"  Bless  her  heart!  "  said  he  gently,  with  his  little 
amused  chuckle.     "  Yes;   and  something  over." 

*'  Then  we  can  use  the  rest  for  the  printing  press." 

"  My  child,"  said  Uncle  Lew,  "it  is  evident  that 
what  you  need  is  complete  change  of  scene." 


30  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

*'  I  will  drink  boiled  water,  Uncle  Lew/* 

He  gave  a  little  groan,  such  a  sad  sound.  "  I 
was  not  thinking  of  your  stomach  just  then,  Clara, 
I  was  thinking  of  your  dear  little  soul." 

"  But  my  soul  can't  take  typhoid  fever." 

"  There  are  other  germs." 

We  sat  a  few  minutes  in  silence.  I  was  trying  to 
find  a  polite  method  of  asserting  my  independence. 
When  I  did  speak  I  trembled  in  a  way  that  was  very 
unpleasant  to  me: — 

'*  If  it  is  my  money,  I  can  spend  it  as  I  please, 
and  I  do  not  want  to  use  it  for  a  long  journey.  I 
am  going  to  lift  the  mortgage  and  buy  the  printing 
press." 

"  The  peculiar  thing  about  it  is  that  although  it 
is  your  money,  my  dear,  you  cannot  spend  it  as  you 
choose,"  remarked  Uncle  Lew. 

"  Then  I  won't  take  it."     I  felt  distinct  relief. 

'*  And  another  peculiar  thing  about  it  is  that  you 
can't  refuse  it.  You  are  what  is  called  in  law  a 
minor — that  is,  you  are  not  twenty-one  years  old — 
and  you  must  do  what  your  family  think  is  best  for 
you." 

'*  Father  was  my  family,  and  he  is  dead,  and  I 
have  adopted  you  and  Aunt  Camilla,"  I  cried. 

To  this  he  made  no  reply;  and  the  frogs  said — 
"  Patrick,  Patrick." 

It  is  impossible  to  put  into  words  a  child's 
desperate  first  consciousness  of  impotence.  All 
those  frantic  emotions  that  betrayal,  desertion, 
fetters,  generate,  vapoured  dumb  and  nameless  in 
my  sick  and  terrified  little  soul. 

"  Patrick,  Patrick,  Patrick,"  chanted  the  frogs. 


THE  CO-OPERATIVE  CHILD  31 

I  did  not  move  head,  nor  hand,  nor  foot. 

'*  Poor  young  one!"  said  Uncle  Lew  at  last. 
"  Poor  young  one!  " 

*' 1  must  stay!"  I  whispered  to  him  then.  I 
could  not  speak  out  loud ;  something  was  smothering 
me.  "  I  must  stay,  to  write  the  autobiography  of 
the  colony." 

"  I  will  send  you  the  Message,  dearie;  you  shall 
know  what  we  are  doing." 

"  But  you  expurgate  the  Message.'* 

He  sighed. 

"  I  must  stay." 

Uncle  Lew  had  a  happy  thought  —  *'  You  shall 
come  back  some  day — if — if  we  are  here." 

I  began  to  cry  then.  *'  I  shall  be  so  old,"  I 
sobbed,  with  my  head  on  my  knees.  *'  I  shall  be 
twice  as  old  as  I  am  now." 

**  I  was  older  than  that  before  I  got  my  chance  to 
live  my  dream,"  said  Uncle  Lew. 

I  lifted  my  head.  "  Is  the  colony  your  dream, 
Uncle  Lew?  " 

He  looked  out  into  the  darkness,  musingly.  "  I 
do  not  know,"  he  said. 

Suddenly  I  clinched  my  little  helpless  hands  and 
flung  them,  rigid,  above  my  head.  "  I  will  not 
compete!"  I  cried.  "It  is  wicked  to  compete. 
Father  said  so.  You  say  so.  So  does  Robert  Owen. 
I  will  not!  I  will  not!  I  will  not! — no  one  shall 
make  me.  Even  if  everybody  else  does,  I  never 
will.     I  will  co-operate  by  myself  for  ever  and  ever." 


CHAPTER  II 

A   FRANCISCAN   REVIVAL 
I 

It  was  Lucian  who  welcomed  me  to  the  farm.  He 
said  something  ecstatic  in  a  strange  tongue,  and 
leaning  toward  me  in  a  tiptoe  sort  of  way  he  kissed 
me  daintily  on  each  cheek.  If  he  had  kissed  my  feet, 
as  his  letter  declared  he  "  had  the  will "  to  do,  I 
could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  Then,  still 
bubbUng  unintelHgible  words,  he  took  my  hand  in 
one  of  his  and  with  the  other  touched  my  hair. 

"  English,  Lucian,'*  said  my  Cousin  Pauline. 
**  You  know  grandfather  wished  it." 

"  Before  he  died,  yes,"  the  boy  answered  swiftly, 
'*  but  do  you  not  think  he  is  by  this  time  more 
cosmopolite  ?  I  must  greet  her  in  the  French  that 
San  Francesco  loved." 

"  She  does  not  understand  French,"  said  a  shy, 
dry,  meditative  Httle  voice,  and  I  saw  Cyrus,  a 
spindly,  pale  child  with  freckles  on  his  nose  and 
wisps  of  sandy  hair  that  strayed  untidily  down  his 
forehead.  He  was  staring  at  me  fixedly,  out  of  a 
pair  of  round,  milky  blue  eyes. 

''No?"  said  Lucian.  He  spoke  to  me,  but  I 
could  only  make  a  little  negative  motion  of  the  head 
and  turn  a  more  embarrassed  crimson. 

"Nor  Italian?" 

32 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  33 

My  Cousin  Pauline  had  drawn  me  to  her  and  was 
kissing  me,  also  on  each  cheek,  and  saying  some- 
thing in  English,  I  do  not  know  what.  Lucian  still 
held  my  hand,  and  as  his  mother  kissed  me  he  said : — 

"  If  you  were  quite  dumb  you  would  still  look 
like  the  Pintorricchio  madonna  at  Spello — those  pale 
slim  features;  the  one  who  says,  'My  son,  where- 
fore? '  to  Gesulino  when  she  loses  him  in  the  temple. 
But  your  hair  is  brighter."  Again  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  touched  it. 

"  San  Francesco  cut  off  her  hair,"  observed  Cyrus. 

My  Cousin  Pauline  gave  a  queer  Uttle  cry  that  I 
afterwards  learned  to  recognise  as  "  Dio  mio!  " 

"  My  little  darhngs,"  she  added,  drawing  us  all 
three  into  her  arms,  "  you  must  learn  what  I  am 
always  telling  you,  that  to-day  we  live  the  life  of 
San  Francesco,  but  in  our  spirits.  We  do  not  wear 
a  hair  shirt  and  beg  at  a  church  door,  those  things 
are  past,  for  us.  But  in  our  spirits  we  follow  San 
Francesco.     Lucian  understands." 

Lucian  was  regarding  his  mother  thoughtfully. 
He  made  no  reply. 

"  But  I  do  not,"  said  Cyrus.     His  tone  was  calm. 

A  little  frown  wrinkled  his  mother's  forehead, 
"  You  understand  that  you  are  not  to  cut  Clara's 
hair,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Cyrus,  drawing  away  from  her. 

I  stood  looking  from  one  to  another,  as  bewildered 
by  their  English  as  I  had  been  by  their  French  and 
Italian.  What  were  they  talking  about?  Who 
was  San  Francesco?  Why  did  he  cut  her  hair? 
Whose  hair?  And  what  was  a  Pintorricchio 
madonna?     I,  who  had  lived  always  among  social 

c 


34  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

radicals  and  Methodist  communists,  had  never  heard 
the  word  madonna. 

Still  with  her  arm  around  me,  the  children's  mother 
spoke  over  my  shoulder  to  the  kind  young  woman 
who  had  met  me  in  New  York  and  taken  me  away 
from  Nicholas  and  Helen.  Her  tone  startled  me; 
it  was  a  tone  apart.  What  was  the  matter  with  it? 
Was  it  unkind? — No;  the  young  woman,  whose 
name  was  Antoinette,  beamed  gratefully.  In  the 
colony  there  were  no  servants,  and  when  my  mother 
was  aUve  she  was  my  father's  servant  and  mine.  I 
had  never  heard  a  lady  speak  to  her  maid. 

"  We  play  they  are  the  Apennines,  Cyrus  and  I," 
Lucian  was  saying,  "  we  play  the  high  one  is  Monte 
Nerone.  I  will  show  you.  Come!'*  He  was 
pulling  me  by  the  hand,  but  I  remained  transfixed, 
gazing  at  my  Cousin  Pauline,  Ustening  to  that  alien, 
unexplainable  tone  in  her  voice. 

*' Why  are  you  frightened?  "  asked  Cyrus. 

"Come!"  said  Lucian,  "while  the  sky  is  rosy. 
Come!  "  and  he  drew  me  around  a  corner  of  the 
broad  piazza. 

The  low  ridge  on  which  the  house  was  built  dipped 
steeply  westward,  a  bubble  of  green  lawn,  into  a 
girdle  of  tree-tops;  and  below  these  lay  the  bright 
level  meadows  of  the  intervale,  stretching  out  to  the 
foot-hills  of  the  mountains  that  watched  over  our 
valley. 

"  Do  you  see  it  between  the  trees?  "  Lucian  was 
saying.  "  We  play  it  is  our  Tiber,  but  it  is  bigger 
than  the  Tiber  in  Umbria;  as  big  as  it  is  at  Rome. 
And  in  Umbria  the  trees  on  its  banks  are  poplar 
trees,  tall  and  quivery." 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  35 

"  But  its  real  name  is  the  Andrew  Scoggin/'  added 
Cyrus. 

Always,  when  I  am  away  from  our  New  Hampshire 
valley,  I  see  it  as  it  was  on  that  first  unforgettable 
evening,  with  the  purple  bloom  of  the  sunset  on  its 
mountain  tops,  the  pulsing  flush  of  the  sunset  in  its 
wide  sky,  in  the  elusive  gleam  of  its  river.  And 
always  my  Cousin  Lucian  is  in  the  picture,  slender, 
bright-haired,  with  those  long  eyes  like  his  mother's, 
only  bluer,  that  firm  chin  running  straight  to  the 
clean  -  cut  masculine  angle  of  his  jaw,  and  the 
beautiful  boy's  mouth,  smiling. 

"It  is  not  really  like  our  villa,**  he  said  softly. 
"  There  are  no  vineyards,  and  a  great  many  more 
woods.  This  is  why  San  Francesco  would  love  it — 
for  the  woods  and  the  wild  places  in  the  rocks.  But 
he  would  like  to  have  Perugia  over  there,  on  that 
hill. — I  would  like  to  have  Perugia  over  there.'* 

He  dropped  my  hand  and  walked  away  from  me 
to  the  end  of  the  piazza  and  stood  there  with  his 
back  to  me. 

"  At  night,  when  it  is  dark,  and  the  fireflies  dance, 
it  is  easier  to  pretend,"  said  Cyrus.  "I  do  not 
pretend  very  well." 

II 

It  was  the  next  morning,  in  a  climbing  beech 
wood,  that  Lucian  told  me  the  story  of  St.  Francis 
and  we  found  our  common  language. 

We  sat  in  a  little  huddle,  knees  under  chin,  at  the 
bottom  of  a  crack  in  a  great  cleft  boulder.  Poly- 
pody ferns  tapestried  the  sides  of  our  little  cell,  and 


36  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

overhead  there  was  a  translucent  pattern  of  beech 
leaves  against  a  blue  sky.  Lucian  wore  my  old  grey 
blanket  wrapper,  that  used  to  be  father's.  He  had 
pounced  upon  it  when  I  was  endeavouring  to  co- 
operate with  Antoinette  in  my  unpacking. 

"  A  cassock!  A  cassock!  "  he  cried,  slipping  into 
it  and  pulling  the  hood  over  his  head.  "  And  here's 
a  dam,  and  here's  a  patch.     It's  perfect!  " 

But  at  this  point  Antoinette  became  voluble  and 
we  were  aU  three  turned  out  of  the  room,  though  not 
without  protest  and  somewhat  undignified  resistance 
from  me. 

''I  must  help  her.  They  are  my  clothes.  I 
always  help,"  I  explained,  ratthng  the  door-knob. 

"  But  why?  It's  what  she's  for.  What  would 
she  do  if  she  didn't  attend  to  our  clothes?  "  asked 
Lucian. 

"  She's  paid  to.     She's  a  servant,"  said  Cyrus. 

"  I  will  never  let  anybody  work  for  me  for  wages/* 
I  declared.     **  I  will  co-operate." 

"  Co-operate!  "  said  Cyrus;  "  what  a  funny  word!" 

"It  is  no  funnier  than  Pintorricchio,"  said  I. 

"  It  means  to  work  with  other  people,"  remarked 
Lucian.  "It  is  in  an  English  book  of  mamma's 
that  she  did  not  finish.  I  began  it  because  it  had  a 
pretty  name — Fabian;  but  I  had  to  look  up  too 
many  words.  You  might  as  well  stop  turning  the 
knob,  Clara;    Antoinette  has  locked  the  door." 

So  I  let  them  take  me  up  into  the  beech  wood,  and 
when  we  found  the  cleft  boulder  it  was  I  who  hung 
by  my  hands  over  the  edge  and  showed  them  how 
to  drop  in. 

"  This  is  the  independence  of  being  in  America> 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  37 

that  we  go  out  by  ourselves  and  Candeloro  does  not 
follow.  And  we  leave  the  path,"  said  Lucian.  He 
was  tying  knots  in  the  cord  of  my  blanket  wrapper. 
"  Cyrus,  do  you  remember  when  we  made  the 
pilgrimage  to  La  Vema,  there  were  rocks  like  this?  " 

Cyrus  nodded. 

"  I  feel  exactly  like  San  Francesco  in  this  cassock. 
One,  two,  three — poverty,  chastity,  obedience." 
He  counted  the  knots. 

It  was  then  that  I  asked  who  San  Francesco  was. 

A  queer,  polyglot  little  version  of  the  story  did 
Lucian  pour  out  to  me.  He  began  in  rapid  Italian, 
then  pulled  himself  up  and  stared  perplexedly. 

"  Some  thoughts  think  themselves  in  English, 
others  in  French,  others  in  Italian,"  he  said.  "  How 
to  speak  my  always  Italian  thoughts  of  San  Fran- 
cesco in  English  words?  There  is  a  very  nice  man 
at  Assisi  who  is  writing  the  life  in  French,  mamma 
has  met  him;  but  it  is  not  finished  yet.  Wait! — I 
will  transform  my  thinking.     I  will  tell  you." 

A  merchant's  son,  this  San  Francesco,  I  gathered. 
"  Rich,  gay,  a  poet — like  me,"  said  Lucian.  A 
soldier  also.  Cyrus  and  I  hearkened  to  a  description 
of  the  battle  of  Perugia  which  I  have  since  sought  in 
vain  in  the  historic  accounts  of  that  event. — But 
a  man  of  tenderness,  simpatico,  molto  I  Also  of  a 
somewhat  feeble  constitution,  like  Cyrus,  for  he  had 
an  illness.  And  when  he  was  getting  well  he  became 
serio,  molto  serio. 

"It  is  like  that,"  explained  Cyrus.  "  One  has 
i  pensieri  sollenni,  I  mean  the  solemn  thoughts." 

And  it  seemed  that  always,  even  when  he  was 
careless,  San  Francesco  had  an  interest  in  beggars. 


38  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

He  wished  to  know  how  it  felt  to  be  a  beggar.  He 
begged  one  whole  day  on  the  steps  of  San  Pietro  a 
Roma  to  know  how. 

*' Ah,  you  begin  to  hke  him!  You  listen!  '*  cried 
Lucian,  and  he  hurried  on  to  the  story  of  la  messa 
and  Vevangelo,  my  mind  leaping  now  with  his, 
stumbUng  over  the  strange  names  but  reaching  the 
heart  of  the  story  in  the  famihar  words  — "  Take 
neither  staff  nor  scrip,  neither  two  coats,  neither 
shoes,  nor  yet  staves." 

And  then  that  cruel  father!  Lucian  arose  in  the 
green  cleft  and  tore  oif  the  cassock  and  cast  it  from 
him.  ''Henceforth,  God  is  my  father!"  he  cried. 
"  Now,  Cyrus,  you  are  the  bishop." 

And  Cyrus,  picking  up  the  cassock,  wrapped  it 
around  his  brother's  shoulders  and  signed  him  with 
the  cross.  This  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
any  one  make  that  sign.  I  did  not  know  what 
Cyrus  was  doing. 

And  Brother  Francesco  built  churches  with  his  own 
hands. — I  thought  of  the  co-operative  architecture 
at  New  Hope. — And  he  made  a  httle  feast  for  those 
wicked  robbers. — Uncle  Lew's  treatment  of  Brother 
Hobart  seemed  to  me  a  worthy  parallel. 

"  And  when  we  are  big  we  also  are  coming  to  him 
hke  that  excellent  Fra  Bernardo  of  Quintavalle,  and 
we  shall  give  to  the  poor — everything!  " 

"  Mamma  does  not,"  said  Cyrus. 

*'  It  is  our  money;  she  told  me  that,"  explained 
his  brother. 

"  She  lives  poor  in  her  spirit.  She  understands 
how  she  does  it,"  Cyrus  remarked,  somewhat  doubt- 
fully. 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  39 

"  Mamma  is  very  mystique,"  said  Lucian.  "  San 
Francesco  also  is  mystique,  but  he  is  pratique  as  well. 
I  am  like  that/' 

"  And  there  is  always  the  difference  that  mamma 
is  a  woman/*  Cyrus  acquiesced.  "  Some  things  the 
woman  must  have — Hke  tea  at  five  o'clock.  She 
cannot  be  hungry  hke  a  man." 

"  Yes,  she  can!  "  I  cried.  "  I  have  been  co-opera- 
tively hungry,  often.  In  New  Hope  the  women  are 
equal  with  the  men.  We  have  nothing  for  ourselves, 
but  everything  for  each  other,  hke  your  San  Fran- 
cesco. And  we  say  brother  and  sister.  And  we  beg. 
We  don't  like  to,  but  we  have  to.  And  people  send 
us  old  clothes,  and  money  for  the  printing  press. 
And  Judge  Acton  sent  us  a  ton  of  coal  once  from  a 
mine  of  his  in  Birmingham.  And  we  distribute  to 
each  according  to  his  need.  We  live  exactly  like 
Jesus  Christ  and  His  disciples." 

"Do  you  mean  grown-up  men  and  women?" 
exclaimed  Lucian.     "Not  just  children  playing?  " 

Both  boys  were  staring  at  me  with  amazed  eyes 
over  their  doubled-up  knees.  We  sat,  of  necessity, 
very  close  together. 

"  Wasn't  father  grown  up?  "  I  demanded.  "  And 
he  hadn't  a  red  cent.  He  told  me  so.  But  it  didn't 
make  any  difference  in  the  colony.  And  Uncle  Lew 
put  in  all  his  money — a  thousand  dollars;  but  father 
and  even  tramps  that  stayed  a  week  or  two,  had 
just  as  much  to  eat  or  to  wear  as  Uncle  Lew." 

"  Then  it  is  real!  "  said  Lucian.     "  Real!  " 

"Wasn't  San  Francesco  real?"  I  asked,  with 
sudden  suspicion.     "Is  it  only  a  story?  " 

"Oh,   yes!"   Lucian  reassured  me.     "But   then 


40  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

some  things  are  real,  like  the  angels  singing  Gloria 
in  Excelsis  at  Natale,  and  the  Judgment  Day  with 
everybody  climbing  out  of  his  tomb  in  the  Campo 
Santo  at  Pisa,  and  demons  leading  you  by  the  ear. 
And  other  things  are  real,  like — ebbene — Uke  our 
going  to  bed  at  eight — it  does  happen,  don't  you  see? 
In  one  way  everything  is  real  if  you  are  mystique," 

I  wanted  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this  word,  but 
Cyrus  intervened  with — *'  Tell  us  more!  "  And  they 
both  hitched  an  inch  closer  to  me  and  waited,  intent. 

"  It  was  Uncle  Llewellyn  who  started  it,"  I 
began.  "  He  had  a  store,  and  he  was  trying  to  make 
an  honest  living;  but  he  got  soured  on  competition." 

My  cousins  wrinkled  their  foreheads. 

*'  All  sociahsts  are  soured  on  competition,"  I 
explained.  "  If  you  compete  it  is  a  fight  to  see  who 
gets  the  most.  You  buy  as  cheap  as  you  can,  and 
then  you  sell  as  dear  as  you  can.  You  do,  or  you 
are  done,  Uncle  Lew  says." 

"  Dio  mio!  "  sighed  Lucian.     "Is  it  English?  " 

I  considered.  An  illustration  used  effectively  by 
Helen's  father  in  our  co-operative  Sunday  School 
occurred  to  me. 

"  In  the  Bible  it  says  if  a  man  wants  your  coat, 
give  it  to  him,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  Also  your  cloak,"  added  Cyrus.  **  I  have  learned 
that  verse  once." 

*'  But  in  business  if  a  man  wants  your  coat  you 
sell  it  to  him  for  three  times  what  you  paid  for  it, 
and  you  don't  tell  him  it  is  last  year's  style." 

"  I  see!  "  shouted  Lucian.  "  And  San  Francesco 
also  made  his  father  angry  because  he  gave  away 
the  rich  cloths  that  were  to  sell,    I  see!  " 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  41 

"  And  Uncle  Llewellyn  decided  to  try  if  the  Bible 
would  really  work.  And  some  other  men  and  women 
wanted  to  try  too. — Helen's  father — she  is  my  great 
friend;  and  Grandfather  Pugh  because  war  is 
wicked;  and  a  great  many  different  kinds  of  people 
who  were  not  Christian  at  all,  some  of  them,  but 
they  were  tired  of  competiting.  Brother  Barton 
was  a  communist;  he  thought  we  ought  to  have 
everything  in  common,  even  our  clothes  when  they 
came  from  the  wash.  But  Brother  Nash  thought 
only  the  land — and  Brother  Peterson  the  land  with 
the  houses  on  it.  And  Nicholas  had  learned  to  be 
an  architect  in  Paris  and  he  had  a  French  way  of 
looking  at  it,  and  he  had  a  red  cap  and  a  red  neck- 
tie; and  he  sang  the  Marseillaise  when  he  was 
planing  boards.  And  Helen's  father  followed 
Tolstoy." 

*'  Ah,  Tolstoy ! "  said  Lucian.  "  I  read  some  of  him, 
but  mamma  did  not  approve,  although  she  is  a 
disciple.  And  he  also  is  like  San  Francesco,  work- 
ing with  peasants.     Yes,  yes!  " 

"  And  the  only  thing  they  had  to  do,  to  belong 
to  the  colony,  was  to  co-operate.  Anybody  could 
belong.  Nicholas  said  it  was  a  premium  for  dead 
beats,  but  he  is  not  really  a  Christian;  and  the  dead 
beats  always  went  away  after  a  while  because  they 
had  to  work.  Perhaps  you  will  see  Nicholas,  he  said 
he  had  met  your  mother  in  Paris,  and  he  knows  a 
teacher  who  hves  here  in  these  mountains." 

"Dead  beats?  "  mused  Cyrus. 

"Never  mind,"  his  brother  said;  "we  do  not 
need  to  know  every  word,  if  we  have  the  ensemble." 

"  And  they  put  together  what  they  had,  and  bought 


42  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

some  land  with  an  old  tumble-down  plantation  house 
on  it.     But  they  had  to  have  a  mortgage  on  it  too." 

"  I  think  I  must  be  told  what  is  a  mortgage," 
pleaded  Cyrus. 

I  pondered.    What  was  a  mortgage? 

"  You  don't  see  it.  It  is  invisible.  But  it  makes 
you  pay  money  every  few  months  or  else  you  can't 
have  the  land  any  more." 

"  A  demon?  "  Cyrus  suggested. 

"No;  something  to  do  with  business.  You  lift 
it,  somehow,  by  paying.  When  I  am  twenty-one  I 
am  going  back  to  the  colony,  and  I  am  going  to  hft 
the  mortgage,  and  buy  a  new  printing  press  and  live 
there.  And  if  I  have  any  money  left  over  I  will  use 
it  for  drainage." 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  live  with  us,"  said 
Cyrus. 

"  No!  "    I  backed  away  from  them  defiantly. 

**  We  will  live  there,  also!  "  said  Lucian  excitedly. 
"  We  will  give  away  all  our  goods  to  feed  the  poor, 
and  we  will  wear  three  cassocks  and  sandals  and 
we  will  walk  there  all  the  way;  and  it  will  be  the 
vintage  time,  and  we  wiU  help  to  gather  the  grapes, 
and  they  will  give  us  bread  to  eat,  and  we  wiU  sleep 
out  of  doors  until  we  arrive  at  the  New  Hope.  And 
your  Uncle  Lew  will  come  out  to  meet  us  like  San 
Domenico  who  greets  San  Francesco  in  the  piazza 
of  Santa  Maria  NoveUa  in  Florence." 

"And  mamma?  "  Cyrus  suggested. 

"  Mamma  will  be  interested  in  something  else." 

But  I  remembered  all  the  people  who  had  gone 
away  from  New  Hope. 

"  You   might   not   like   it,"    I   warned.     "  Helen 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  43 

doesn't.  We  eat  the  same  thing  almost  every  day. 
Some  people  think  we  ought  not  to  allow  dancing; 
and  some  people  don't  like  having  a  sermon  and 
prayers  on  Sunday.  And  there  was  one  man  who 
wanted  to  have  even  husbands  and  wives  in  common. 
He  and  father  were  the  two  only  real  socialists  in  the 
colony,  and  he  tried  to  say  father  must  believe  the 
way  he  did  about  husbands  and  wives.  And  father 
kicked  him  off  the  piazza.  And  the  next  day  we 
found  that  he  and  Brother  Barton's  wife  had  gone 
away  together  on  the  midnight  train.  And  his  own 
wife,  only  she  wasn't  really  his  wife — nobody  was 
his  wife — was  left  behind  with  us.  And  some  people 
left  after  that  because  they  thought  she  wasn't 
respectable." 

"  The  easiest  way  is  not  to  marry  at  all,  like  San 
Francesco,"  said  Lucian.  *'  Then  you  do  not  grieve 
any  one." 

**  San  Francesco  married  Madonna  Poverta," 
Cyrus  corrected. 

**  But  she  was  not  real." 

"  And  then  you  say  everything  is  real."  Cyrus's 
tone  was  patient. 

"  I  said  if  you  are  mystique.  But  you  are  not 
mystique.  To  San  Francesco  she  was  real,  and  to 
me.     She  is  my  bride  also." 

I  was  about  to  make  a  remark  about  respecta- 
bility, but  I  remembered  that  San  Francesco  was 
dead,  and  one  could  marry  widows.  Then  Cyrus 
said : — 

"I  am  glad  ;  because  that  leaves  Clara  for 
me." 

There  was  a  startled  flash  in  Lucian's  blue  eyes; 


44  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

he  opened  his  hps  to  speak,  but  shut  them  again  as 
quickly.  The  two  brothers  looked  at  each  other, 
saying  nothing;  the  little  brother  with  his  sandy, 
straggling  hair,  and  pale,  intent  eyes;  the  elder 
with  his  seraph's  face  and  yellow,  tousled  halo. 
'*  I  am  not  going  to  marry  any  one,"  said  I  hastily. 


Ill 

No  one  has  occupied  more  of  the  surface  of  my 
life  than  my  Cousin  Pauline,  but  it  was  a  long  time 
before  she  found  her  way  within.  There  were  com- 
punctious years  when  I  left  the  door  on  the  latch, 
even  set  it  wide,  with  silent  caution;  but  when  she 
came  by  she  closed  it  against  herself  and  locked 
it,  and  sat  and  wept  exasperatingly  long  on  the 
threshold.  And  I  shall  always  be  afraid  that  I  ought 
to  have  opened  it  earlier;  that  it  was  my  fault. 
Why  I  did  not,  I  cannot  even  now  quite  understand. 
To  be  made  the  confidante  of  a  high-minded,  undis- 
ciplined, self-absorbed,  and  incidentally  beautiful 
woman  should  have  awakened  the  emotions  of  a 
romantic  Uttle  girl  of  eleven;  but  although  there  is 
no  doubt  that  I  listened  greedily  and  even  lay  awake 
nights  endeavouring  to  find  a  way  to  reconcile  the 
passionately  aspiring  soul  of  my  cousin  with  the 
intricate  conventionalities  of  her  environment,  my 
interest  was  ungratefully  impersonal,  I  had  always 
a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  the  situation.  At  New 
Hope  grown  people  and  children  alike  had  their 
reserves.  My  Cousin  PauUne  had  no  reserves,  with 
young  or  old;    and  instinctively,  unconsciously,   I 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  45 

criticised  and  distrusted  her.  Her  boys  did  also, 
but  with  a  frankness  of  speech  more  naive  than  my 
pohte  silences. 

It  was  one  of  her  griefs  that  they  did  not  love  her 
as  ideal  sons  ought  to  love  their  mother.  I  wished 
that  she  would  not  tell  me  so,  but  she  did,  very 
often,  especially  that  first  summer  when  she  was 
deciding  to  marry  the  marchese.  Lucian  and  Cyrus, 
on  their  part,  for  all  their  outspokenness,  never  com- 
plained of  any  lack  of  love  on  her  part. 

When  I  was  eleven  years  old  I  thought  my  Cousin 
Pauline  must  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world;  and  to-day  I  still  feel  the  spell  of  her  long 
grey  eyes,  the  eyes  of  Guenevere,  as  grey  as  glass; 
the  spell  of  the  long  curves  of  her  mouth;  of  the 
delicate  dark  fluff  of  her  parted  hair — "  her  filmy, 
flying,  twilight  hair,"  Lucian  called  it  in  a  poem  he 
wrote  at  fifteen  under  the  influence  of  Wordsworth. 
Lucian  was  always  writing  poems  to  his  mother 
when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  she  kept  them  in  a 
Florentine  box  of  gilded  vellum  and  read  them  aloud 
to  me  and  other  people.  One  of  the  things  for  which 
I  reproach  myself  is  that  I  have  never  read  her  the 
poems  he  has  written  to  me. 

Lucian  would  not  mind,  I  know.  He  has  always 
been  unembarrassed  about  his  verses.  And,  of  course, 
a  good  many  are  included  in  his  Httle  published 
volume.  In  her  copy,  which  he  had  bound  in  her 
favourite  vellum,  she  has  underUned  the  ones  she 
thinks  he  wrote  for  her.  Yet  the  book  is  one  of  her 
minor  griefs;  she  had  expected  him  to  dedicate  it 
to  her.  But  she  was  in  Italy  that  year,  and  he 
and  Cyrus  and  I  were  quarrelling  with  our  trustees 


46  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

because  they  would  not  let  us  endow  a  social  settle- 
ment we  were  fond  of;  and  he  dedicated  the  book 
to  his  Lady  Poverty. 

I  am  glad,  now,  that  the  trustees  were  firm,  for  I 
have  come  to  think  endowed  settlements,  under 
present  conditions,  more  or  less  of  a  snare,  but  I  was 
younger  then,  and  Lucian  had  not  met  Lazarus 
Samson.  If  the  trustees  had  known  what  we  should 
do  with  the  money  when  we  got  our  hands  on  it,  they 
would  have  allowed  us,  preferably,  to  endow  any 
number  of  settlements,  I  am  sure.  However,  I  do 
not  complain  of  the  trustees.  They  really  made  for 
peace  in  the  family;  so  long  as  we  could  all  agree 
in  execrating  them  we  did  not  drift  too  far  apart. 
Sometimes  they  were  the  only  bond  of  union  between 
my  Cousin  Pauline  and  me;  for  she  gives  them  more 
trouble  than  we  did:  partly  because  her  income, 
which  is  perpetual — she  has  no  capital — is  smaller 
than  ours,  while  her  capacity  for  giving  it  away  is 
greater,  and  partly  because  the  marriage  with  the 
marchese  has  made  compHcations. 

Until  I  was  quite  far  along  in  my  teens  I  used  to 
fear  that  I  was  responsible  for  that  marriage  with 
the  marchese.  No  one  was  ever  keener  to  serve 
humanity  than  my  Cousin  Pauline,  and  her  descrip- 
tion of  the  opportunities  for  service  on  those  great 
Italian  estates  added  fuel  to  my  own  co-operative 
ardours.  And  the  boys  would  not  miss  her;  they 
never  missed  her  as  sons  should  miss  their  mother. 
I  used  to  try  to  protest  at  this  point,  but  unfor- 
tunately I  knew  it  was  true. — They  must  be  away  at 
school  in  any  event;  she  must  play  an  increasingly 
smaller  role  in  their  life.    And  in  America  one  could 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  47 

not  practise  a  Franciscan  life;  but  in  Italy,  in  the 
country  of  St.  Francis! 

"We  are  led,  my  dear  little  Clara  Co-operativa. 
Always,  all  my  life  I  have  been  led.  Again  and  again 
I  have  been  at  the  edge  of  despair  and  the  way 
opens.  At  the  darkest  moment  of  my  life,  when  to 
live  in  the  same  house  with  the  children's  father 
seemed  more  than  I  —  but  never  mind.  No ;  I 
cannot  speak  of  that  now;  —  sometime'*  —  she 
hesitated — "  when  you  are  a  little  older?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  fascinated,  yet  edging  away  in 
embarrassment. 

"  And  this  time  it  is  this  dear  little  cousin  who 
opens  the  way  for  me;  this  dear  little  Pintorricchio — 
but  there  is  already  in  your  face,  sweetheart,  a 
solemnity,  a  severity  even,  that  his  women  do  not 
have.  Yes;  not  really  a  Pintorricchio.  And  we 
will  have  on  our  estates  another  co-operative  colony 
like  your  New  Hope.  Shall  we? — Perhaps  I  shall 
cook  the  macaroni! — Do  you  know  what  I  have 
arranged  to-day,  carina  ?  I  meant  it  for  a  surprise. 
I  have  sent  three  subscriptions  to  that  wonderful 
Uttle  Message — one  for  Lucian,  one  for  Cyrus,  one 
for  me.  And  I  have  written  your  Welsh  saint  that 
he  is  to  kick  the  old  printing  press  one  last  time  and 
accept  a  new  one  from  me.  Yes;  is  it  not  worth 
while  to  have  come  to  us  for  this — to  be  a  little 
missionary  to  your  poor  Cousin  Pauline  and  all  those 
heavenly  peasants  with  their  calm  faces  of  the 
Perugineschi  ?  " 

And  I  thought  it  could  be  done.  I  had  never 
seen  an  Italian  peasant.  I  had  never  seen  the 
marchese. 


48  THE  CHILDREN.  OF  LIGHT 

Uncle  Lew  wrote  us  a  beautiful  letter  about  the 
new  printing  press.  It  had  come  at  a  time  when  he 
needed  cheering,  for  there  were  more  cases  of  fever 
at  the  colony.  It  is  when  I  look  at  my  Cousin 
Pauline  through  Uncle  Lew's  eyes  that  I  find  her 
most  lovable.  Indeed,  all  the  world  becomes  more 
lovable  when  I  look  at  it  through  Uncle  Lew's  eyes. 
And  yet,  he  had  no  illusions  in  regard  to  the  world. 

IV 

It  was  quite  true  that  to  be  Franciscan  in  America, 
as  my  Cousin  Pauline  had  said,  was  next  to  im- 
possible. We  had  but  one  cassock  among  us  and 
we  were  not  allowed  to  appear  in  that  after  four  in 
the  afternoon.  We  might  not  sit  by  the  roadside 
and  beg.  We  might  not  sleep  out  at  night  in  the 
holes  in  the  rocks.  We  dramatised  the  events  of 
the  Fioretti — the  conversion  of  Brother  Wolf,  of  the 
three  robbers,  the  pranks  of  Brother  Juniper;  I 
defended  my  convent  vahantly  against  the  Saracens; 
Lucian  added  a  new  laud  almost  every  day  to  the 
Canticle  of  the  Sun  or  to  Fra  Jacopone's  song  in 
praise  of  poverty;  Cyrus  preached  a  whole  series  of 
sermons  to  the  birds,  each  one  from  a  different  text. 
He  used  to  look  his  text  up  before  he  went  to  bed, 
and  plan  his  sermon  when  he  woke  in  the  middle  of 
the  night ;  he  was  never  a  good  sleeper.  And  he  had 
his  own  ideas  about  a  suitable  delivery,  had  Cyrus. 

"  You  don't  go  about  a  gran  voce  predicando  to 
birds,"  he  used  to  say.  "  And  you  don't  wave  your 
arms  at  them.  You  stand  still  as  the  terra-cotta 
San  Francesco  in  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli." 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL 


49 


And  so  he  would  stand,  speaking  in  that  dry, 
gentle  voice  of  his,  at  first  slowly,  but  as  he  became 
absorbed  in  his  theme  a  little  faster,  and  a  little 
faster,  until  Lucian  and  I  were  leaning  forward 
breathless,  racing  to  catch  the  level,  running  words. 
And  always  it  was  a  sermon  adapted  to  his  audience; 
he  never  forgot  that  he  was  preaching  to  birds;  all 
his  figures  of  speech  were  winged  and  feathery,  all 
his  allusions  were  ornithological ;  so  pratique,  as 
Lucian  would  say.  I  remember  there  was  one 
sermon  about  Noah  and  the  dove,  and  another 
about  the  swallow  and  her  young,  and  another  about 
the  sparrow  that  fell  to  the  ground,  and  another 
about  Elijah's  ravens.  But  the  one  that  moved  us 
most  was  concerned  with  the  snare  of  the  fowler.  I 
can  shut  my  eyes  to-day  and  see  again  the  dreadful 
Italian  bird-trap — the  captive  decoy  singing  above 
the  treacherous  thicket,  and  all  the  little  pierced, 
dead  birds  within — that  Cyrus  knew  so  well.  I  can 
hear  again  the  horrid  simplicity  of  his  language,  the 
suppressed  shiver  in  his  voice  as  he  described  the 
fluttering,  dying  lark,  or  the  six  small  spitted  birds 
roasting  ^  la  broche. 

But  even  the  sermons  were  only  play.  The  one 
bird  who  ever  listened  was  the  Geneva  nightingale 
in  the  music-box.  What  was  the  use  of  being  minors 
if  we  couldn't  act  like  minors?  No  one  had  as  yet 
enlightened  us  as  to  the  difference  between  the  legal 
and  the  religious  aspects  of  the  word,  and  Lucian's 
mysticism  gave  us  no  satisfactory  answer  to  our 
question;  for  Lucian,  according  to  his  own  explana- 
tion of  himself,  was  mystique  symboliste,  and  demanded 
a  certain  amount  of  objectivity  from  existence. 

D 


50  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

There  was  one  day,  however,  when  we  did  almost 
achieve  reality.  My  Cousin  Pauline  went  to  New 
York  on  the  morning  train,  with  many  mysterious 
assurances  that  she  should  bring  me  a  surprise  when 
she  came  back;  and  we,  when  we  had  seen  her  off, 
were  to  be  allowed  to  climb  a  favourite  little  moun- 
tain and  spend  our  day  at  the  top,  feasting  our  Lady 
Poverty  on  blue  berries  and  dry  bread,  with  water 
borne  aloft  from  the  brook  in  a  bottle.  This  out- 
of-door  freedom,  so  long  as  our  whereabouts  were 
known,  was  a  part  of  the  process  of  Americanisation 
deemed  necessary  for  my  cousins,  but  we  had  never 
before  been  allowed  to  take  our  lunch  and  be  gone 
all  day.  Cousin  Pauline*s  vanishing  face  at  the 
train  window  no  doubt  increased  the  recklessness  of 
our  imaginations. 

"  I  have  a  plan,'*  said  Lucian.  We  were  at  the 
cross-roads,  where  we  turn  to  go  up  the  valley. 
"  We'll  get  out  here,  Spellman,  and  walk,"  he  added. 
And  the  unsuspecting  coachman  drew  up  and  let  us  out. 

Cyrus  came  last,  dragging  the  cassock  after  him. 
The  cassock  had  not  been  prominent  in  our  Francis- 
canism  for  a  week  past,  owing  to  the  weather;  and 
this  was  a  particularly  hot  day. 

"  You  haven't  brought  that!  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  of  course,  he  can  wear  it  if  he  likes,"  said 
Lucian. 

But  Cyrus  explained  that  it  was  not  his  turn.  We 
stared  discomfited  at  the  woolly  thing  lying  in  the 
dust  at  our  feet. 

'*  You  know,"  I  said  at  last,  "he  is  right.  If  we 
are  going  to  wear  a  cassock  we  ought  to  wear  it. 
But  I  can't  remember  whose  turn  it  is." 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL 


51 


"It  is  not  the  outside  of  things  that  counts," 
mused  Lucian.     "  I  do  not  think  it  was  mine.'* 

''  Then  you  might  as  well  say  it  makes  nothing  if 
we  wear  no  clothes  at  all,"  pursued  Cyrus.  "  And 
you  know  that  is  not  so." 

"  How  do  I  know?  "  his  brother  asked,  and  not 
waiting  for  a  reply,  began  to  chant  the  quatrain  he 
had  composed  for  these  emergencies: — 

**  Bro  ther  Fran  cis,  who  shall  wear 
The  cas  sock  grey  of  Sis  ter  Clare  ? 
He  shall  wear  the  cas  sock  grey, 
On  whose  head  my  hands  I  lay.'' 

The  laying  on  of  hands  ended  upon  his  own  head, 
as  I,  who  had  a  turn  for  mathematics,  had  known  it 
would  when  he  began  by  counting  himself  first.  I 
suspected  him  of  doing  penance. 

"  I  would  really  hke  to  wear  it,"  I  pleaded. 

'*  What  a  fib!  "  said  Lucian,  putting  it  on.  "  Now 
listen,  frati  miet,"  and  he  unfolded  his  plan.  It  was 
worthy  of  a  brother  minor. 

We  were  to  separate,  scattering  our  bread  to  our 
sisters  and  brothers  the  birds  as  we  went. 

"  She  doesn't  know  what  dry  bread  means,  that 
cook! "  Cyrus  exclaimed,  opening  his  package. 
"  Here  are  cookies  and  an  egg." 

"  Niente,  niente  ;  scatter  them!  "  said  his  brother. 

And  we  were  to  eat  only  such  food  as  we  could 
honestly  earn  by  the  sweat  of  our  brows. 

"  Do  you  mean  go  into  a  house  and  ask  them  to  let 
us  work  for  our  dinner?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Yes.    What  is  that  word  ?— Chores !  " 

"People  we  don't  know?  "  faltered  Cyrus. 


52  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

**  Would  people  we  do  know  let  us  work  for  them? 
Do  they,  ever?  "  Lucian  demanded. 

Cyrus  and  I  eyed  each  other  gloomily.  StiU,  if 
the  occasion  called  for  martyrs  we  could  always 
screw  up  courage  enough  to  march  conscientiously 
to  the  stake.  It  has  never  been  a  question  of 
courage  with  Lucian;    he  goes  singing  and  dancing. 

"  And  if  no  one  gives  us  work?  "  Cyrus  suggested. 

"  Then  remain  himgry." 

**  I  would  rather." 

"  You  cannot  rather.  You  wiU  have  to  ask. 
Cyrus,  you  are  under  a  vow;  obedience;  remember!  " 
Lucian's  voice  was  firm. 

And  now,  who  would  be  Brother  Masseo,  and 
spin?  Cyrus  did  not  offer.  He  evidently  felt  that 
the  day's  work  was  sufficiently  heavy — and  spinning 
made  him  sea-sick.  It  was  not  fair  to  expect  Lucian 
to  spin  in  the  hot  cassock. 

"  I  will  be  Brother  Masseo,"  said  I. 

And  even  as  Brother  Masseo  spun  round  and 
round,  six  hundred  years  ago  on  the  Umbrian  high- 
way, at  the  merry  bidding  of  Brother  Francis,  to 
decide  in  which  direction  they  two  should  go  on  their 
missionary  journey  —  to  Florence  ?  —  to  Arezzo  ?  — 
to  Siena? — so  did  I  twirl  on  the  highway  in  New 
Hampshire,  until  the  trees  swam  and  the  hills  heaved. 

"  Head  for  Cyrus,  feet  for  me,  right  hand  for 
Lucian,"  I  gasped,  and  fell  sprawling,  my  head 
toward  Portland,  my  feet  toward  home,  my  right 
hand  pointing  to  the  woods. 

By  the  time  I  had  spat  the  dust  out  of  my  mouth, 
Lucian  was  over  the  fence,  capering  towards  the 
trees. 


4^Js:w 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  53 

"  I  need  not  ask  at  every  house;  I  can  choose,  you 
think?  "  Cyrus  hazarded. 

"  Once  will  be  enough,"  I  assured  him.  "  I  only 
mean  to  ask  once." 

"  I  shall  ask  three  times,"  he  said,  in  a  depressed 
voice,  and  started  down  the  road,  scattering  cookie 
crumbs. 

But  Lucian  was  calling  from  the  field. 

"  Listen!  "  he  shouted,  "  I  have  made  a  new  laud. 
— Blessed  be  our  Lord  God  for  our  Sister  Cassock, 
for  she  clothes  the  naked,  and  very  modest  is  she, 
and  woolly  and  warm  both  winter  and  summer;  and 
she  is  a  discipline  to  the  proud." 

Chanting  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  he  turned  and 
galloped  up  the  field. 

A  curve  of  the  road  hid  Cyrus.  I  got  up  from  the 
dust,  shook  my  skirts,  and  set  forth  without  enthu- 
siasm upon  my  own  quest. 


There  were  many  lions  in  my  path,  but  the  first 
was  one  day  to  be  a  real  Hon,  if  I  had  but  known  it. 
He  was,  that  summer,  a  blue-eyed,  thin-faced  young 
man  named  Tristram  Lawrence,  who  lived  in  a  little 
white  house  by  the  roadside  and  came  to  tea  some- 
times and  asked  me  questions  about  Nicholas,  who 
was  a  class-mate  of  his,  and  about  the  colony; 
superciliously  amused  questions  they  were,  as  if 
neither  Nicholas  nor  the  colony  was  to  be  taken 
seriously.  My  Cousin  Pauline  was  interested  in  him 
because  he  thought  Buddha  more  admirable  than 


54  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Jesus  Christ.  To  Lucian  he  was  attractive  because 
he  was  named  for  the  lover  of  Iseult  the  fair — who- 
ever she  might  be,  or  Buddha,  either,  for  that 
matter — and  because  the  Httle  white  house  was 
crammed  with  books  in  strange  tongues  which  even 
Lucian  could  not  read. 

As  I  passed  along  the  road,  that  adventurous  day, 
the  young  man  sat  by  a  window  with  his  lean,  grey- 
hound face  dipped  down  into  a  book;  and  to  my 
relief  he  did  not  look  up.  But  his  fox  terrier 
capered  at  my  heels  up  the  sandy  stretch  of  hill  and 
obligingly  ate  my  cookies. 

Farther  on  our  view  shone  out:  the  bare  ledge  of 
precipice  across  the  river,  and  the  far,  serene  summits 
of  the  Presidents.  I  could  see  the  red  roof  of  our 
house  above  the  birch  trees  that  climbed  our  ridge. 
What  should  I  do  if  any  of  the  small  army  of 
servants  who  ministered  to  my  Cousin  Pauline's 
simple  life — the  term  had  not  been  copyrighted  in 
those  days — were  anywhere  within  eyeshot?  Here 
was  no  lion;    a  dragon,  rather,  many-eyed. 

Our  farmer's  wife,  however,  was  not  at  her  dairy 
window.  I  slunk  along  close  to  the  fence.  Our 
farmer  was  not  at  the  lower  gateway,  nor  at  the 
upper.  Beyond  the  upper  gateway  I  began  to  run, 
quite  unreasonably,  and  I  ran  myself  out  of  breath 
and  had  to  sit  down  and  rest  in  front  of  a  shabby 
farmhouse  with  a  splendid  view  of  the  high  moun- 
tains. 

But  my  eyes  were  blind  to  the  view.  Should  I 
ask  for  work  at  the  farmhouse?  No; — they  would 
recognise  me;  I  was  too  near  home.  I  got  up  and 
went   on.      Would  not   all  these  people  know  me 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  55 

along  this  road  ?  I  was  aware  that  my  cousins  and 
I  were  objects  of  interest  to  the  countryside. 

I  passed  a  little  box  of  a  house  where  a  man  made 
fox-skin  rugs  with  pinked  flannel  around  their  edges. 
I  might  offer  to  pink  the  flannel.  But  I  did  not 
offer. 

Presently  the  road  divided,  and  I  took  the  narrower 
branch  because  there  were  ribbons  of  grass  between 
the  wheel-ruts.  I  followed  it  a  long  way,  meeting 
no  one.  I  wondered  how  many  miles  I  had  walked. 
I  thought  of  Cyrus,  walking,  walking,  walking  in  the 
opposite  direction.  How  tired  he  must  be !  Suppose 
some  one  should  kidnap  Cyrus ! — I  thought  of  Lucian, 
singing  and  dancing  through  the  woods.  I  thought 
of  bears. 

The  road  stopped  at  an  unpainted  house  nestling 
under  a  rugged,  craggy  little  mountain.  All  around 
the  base  of  the  crag  green  meadows  smiled  and 
smiled  to  the  river-edge.  About  the  rotting  door- 
step little  skinny,  tow-headed  children  tumbled  and 
squabbled;  but  each  stood  on  its  own  spindle-legs 
and  stared,  voiceless,  when  I  appeared.  A  boy  older 
than  the  others,  Lucian's  age  perhaps,  sat  in  the 
doorway  hammering  two  sticks  together  with  a  tack- 
hammer.     When  the  silence  fell  he  looked  up. 

Never  was  there  such  an  alert  boy.  He  had  bright 
brown  eyes  that  saw  the  whole  of  me  at  once.  He 
had  a  voice  as  hard  and  bright  as  his  eyes. 

**  How  do  you  do?  "  he  said  politely. 

"  How  do  you  do?  *'  said  I. 

"  Have  you  come  to  go  up  the  mountain?  "  he 
asked,  laying  hammer  and  sticks  inside  the  door. 

"  Will  you  please  ask  your  mother  if  she  wants 


56  THE  CHILDREN'  OF  LIGHT 

any  help,"  said  I,  plunging.  "  I  will  work  aU  day, 
tiU  five  o'clock,  for  my  dinner." 

**  How?  "  said  he  in  the  vernacular,  meaning 
"what." 

"  I  can  mind  a  baby,  and  sweep  and  dust,  and 
dam  stockings,  and  peel  potatoes.  I  can  do  a  great 
many  other  things." 

"Have  you  run  away  from  your  folks?"  he 
inquired. 

Had  I  ?  I  evaded  the  question  and  repUed  that  I 
was  an  orphan. 

He  regarded  me  curiously.    Did  he  know  who  I  was  ? 

**  Go  and  ask  your  mother!  "  I  repeated. 

''  She  don't  have  no  help.  She  does  it  all,  what 
I  don't  do."     The  answer  was  final. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  next  house?  "  I  asked,  back- 
ing away. 

'*  There  ain't  any.    We're  the  end  of  the  road." 

**  Good-bye,"  I  said.  I  had  asked  for  work  and 
been  refused;  now  I  could  go  hungry  with  a  clear 
conscience.  But  the  boy  ran  after  me  and  walked 
at  my  side. 

"Say!"  he  said,  in  a  business-Hke  tone;  "you 
may  not  be  this  way  again  soon;  you  better  let  me 
show  you  up  the  mountain.  It's  a  regular  mountain 
day." 

I  did  not  want  to  go  home  so  early  without  Lucian 
and  Cyrus. 

'*  Next  week  we'll  be  hayin'  and  I  couldn't  take 
you,"  said  the  boy. 

I  looked  up  at  the  mountain.     It  was  very  small. 

"  I  can  find  my  way,  I  guess." 

"  Well,  you  guess  again.     Last  week  there  was 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  57 

two  of  them  old  maids  from  down  the  valley,  summer 
folks,  and  they  thought  they  was  so  smart,  they 
didn't  want  me  taggin*  on.  And  they  kep'  agoin' 
round  and  around,  halfway  up,  and  never  come  out 
on  top  at  all." 

So  I  resigned  myself  into  the  hands  of  this 
capable  boy,  and  presently  we  were  scrambling  up 
a  blazed  trail.  We  said  little;  we  needed  our  breath 
for  the  climb;  but  at  the  top,  when  he  had  named 
all  the  mountains  for  me  and  pointed  out  the  Glen, 
and  we  were  sitting  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
looking  down  on  the  river  and  the  railroad,  and  the 
jumble  of  houses  that  he  called  "  the  town,"  he 
became  confidential.  I  know,  now,  that  it  was  all  a 
part  of  his  role  as  mountain  guide  to  summer  ladies. 

"  If  ever  I'm  governor  of  this  state,"  he  remarked 
casually,  *'  I'm  goin*  to  run  a  trolley  line  from  the 
railroad  station  clean  up  through  Carter  Notch. 
There's  money  in  railroads. — I  bet  you  I'll  be  the 
richest  man  in  New  Hampshire,  some  day.  What'U 
you  bet  I  won't?  " 

I  said  he  would  have  to  be  an  engineer  if  he 
wanted  to  make  a  trolley  line,  and  wasn't  he  a 
farmer  ? 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't,"  he  corrected  me.  **  Jay  Gould 
didn't  have  to  be  an  engineer."  He  paused,  re- 
garding me  fixedly.  "  And  neither  did  Jesse 
Emery." — I  made  no  sign.—'*  What '11  you  bet  I'm 
as  rich  as  Jesse  Emery  some  day?  His  father 
wasn't  no  better  than  my  father,  my  father  says. 
And  he  wasn't  ever  a  coal  miner,  but  he  owned  more 
coal  mines  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at — didn't  he?  " 

I  looked  at  him  in  defiant  silence. 


58  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  If  he  could,  why  can't  I?  '* 

"  It  is  wicked  to  own  things  like  coal  mines  and 
railroads,  that  ought  to  belong  to  everybody,"  I 
explained. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that  if  I  was  you.  It  isn't  pretty, 
and  you're  just  tryin'  to  be  smart." 

"  I  wiU  say  it  if  I  Uke." 

He  evidently  restrained  himself  with  difficulty. 
He  withdrew  his  eyes  from  mine  and  gazed  down  the 
valley.  "  Everything  belongs  to  the  one  that  can 
buy  it,"  he  said. 

"  That  isn't  true." 

He  turned  upon  me  with  incisive  speech — "  I 
didn't  call  you  a  Har  when  you  said  your  father  and 
mother  was  dead.  Now  don't  you  call  me  a  liar. 
If  it  was  one  of  your  brothers  I'd  lick  him." 

"  I  haven't  any  brothers.  And  my  father  and 
mother  are  dead.     And  it  isn't  true." 

We  glared  at  each  other.  "I'm  goin'  to  be  the 
richest  man  in  the  whole  world  when  I  grow  up,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  And  I'm  goin'  to  buy  all  the  rail- 
roads and  coal  mines  I  can  lay  my  hands  on.  And 
they'll  be  mine." 

"  You're  not  either!  "  I  retorted.  "  By  the  time 
you  grow  up  everybody  will  be  as  rich  as  everybody 
else." 

*'  Say! — I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  he  shouted. 
"  You're  crazy." 

"  You  wait  and  see!  " 

"You  wait  and  see  yourself!  I  bet  you  I'm  as 
rich  as — as  rich  as  Jesse  Emery."  Again  he  gave 
me  a  queer  look.     "  I  bet  you  I'm  as  rich  as  you  are." 

"I'm  poor,"  I  replied. 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  59 

"  I  wouldn't  try  to  beat  that,  if  I  was  you,"  he 
jeered.     "  It  makes  three  and  it's  a  whopper." 

I  chose  to  preserve  a  haughty  silence,  and  he 
flipped  stones  over  the  precipice.  When  he  found 
that  I  would  not  renew  the  conversation  he  began 
again : — 

**  Say;   I  know  who  you  are." 

I  waited. 

"  You're  Jesse  Emery's  grand-daughter." 

"  I  am  not." 

"  And  you've  got  two  brothers  and  a  mother." 

"  I  have  not." 

He  was  annoyed.  "  Say;  you  don't  know  when 
to  stop,  do  you?  " 

"  I  am  not  his  grand-daughter." 

**  Well,  your  name's  Emery." 

"  Yes." 

"  What  Emery?  " 

**  He  was  my  great-uncle." 

"Your  great-uncle?"  He  considered  this. — 
"  And  them  boys?  " 

"  They  are  my  second  cousins." 

"  Oh!  "  He  had  evidently  decided  to  accept  my 
word. — "  And  didn't  he  leave  you  nothin'  ?  " 

"  Yes;  but  I  can't  help  it  if  he  did;  and  when  I 
grow  up  I'm  going  to  give  it  all  away.  So  I'm  not 
rich.     I'm  poor." 

"  Hoh!  "  he  sniffed.     "  I  bet  you  don't." 

"  I  bet  I  do." 

"  You'll  have  more  sense  when  you  grow  up." 

"  No,  I  shan't." 

"  Haw  —  haw !  —  No,  you  shan't !  —  Caught  you 
that  time.     You  don't  know  what  you'll  do." 


6o  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Neither  do  you  know  what  you'll  do/* 

"  I  do,  too.  I'll  look  out  for  number  one;  my 
father  says  I  will.     I  ain't  a  fool." 

Again  conversation  languished,  but  the  boy  was 
not  fond  of  silence.  "  He  was  here  last  summer," 
he  remarked  after  a  minute  or  two. 

"Who?" 

"  Your  great-uncle.  We  always  just  call  him 
Jesse  Emery  round  here.  He  was  down  to  this  end 
of  town  tryin'  to  buy  this  farm,  but  the  man  we 
work  it  for  wouldn't  sell.  He  thought  he  could 
make  old  Jesse  pay  through  the  nose;  but  that  was 
where  he  was  too  smart,  because  now  old  Jesse's 
dead  the  trustees  ain't  buyin'  farms.  And  I  took 
him  up  this  mountain.  It  was  a  pull,  but  he  done 
it.  And  he  set  over  there  on  that  boulder  and  wiped 
the  sweat  off  his  face,  and  he  said,  '  It's  a  great 
country.'  And  he  said  he  wished  his  two  Uttle 
grandsons  was  as  up  and  comin'  American  boys  as 
me.  And  he  asked  me  what  I  was  goin'  to  be.  And 
he  laughed.  And  he  said,  '  I'll  bet  on  you, 
Cuthbert.'  That's  my  name — Cuthbert  Sylvester 
— ^he  remembered  it  from  the  time  he  come  before. 
And  when  he  got  into  the  buggy  he  said,  '  Don't 
you  forget  I've  got  my  eye  on  you,  Cuthbert.'  And 
he  give  me  a  five-dollar  bill  for  showin'  him  up  this 
mountain.  The  most  anybody  else  ever  paid  me 
was  a  quarter." 

I  could  feel  myself  growing  scarlet.  This  boy  who 
looked  out  for  number  one  expected  me  to  pay  him 
for  bringing  me  up  the  mountain. 

*'  All  what  I  earn  I  put  in  a  box,"  he  continued. 
"  Some  day  I'm  goin'  to  the  Academy  and  to  Harvard 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  6l 

College;  and  I  thought  if  old  Jesse  kept  on  seein* 
me  summers  he  might  give  me  a  start  in  business. 
I  tell  you  what,  I'm  sorry  he  died." 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  go  now,"  said  I  hurriedly. 
What  could  I  give  him  instead  of  money?  All  the 
way  down  the  mountain  I  revolved  this  mortifying 
problem.  Once  he  broke  in  upon  my  perplexities 
by  exclaiming: — 

"  I  bet  you  I've  got  just  as  good  a  right  to  be  rich 
as  he  had." 

"  That's  what  I  keep  telling  you,"  I  replied  im- 
patiently. "  Everybody  ought  to  be  as  rich  as 
everybody  else." 

He  brooded  over  this  as  we  slid  and  tripped  over 
the  rough  trail. 

At  the  house  he  bade  me  wait,  and  he  ran  in  and 
brought  out  a  would-be-rustic  picture  frame  made  of 
varnished  twigs. 

*'  Would  you  like  it?  "  he  asked.  *'  I  make  them 
to  sell." 

"  I  have  no  money,"  I  faltered. 

"  rU  come  down  to  your  place  for  it.  Fve  been 
huntin'  a  reason  to  come."  He  tried  to  press  the 
frame  into  my  hands. 

"  No,  no;  please!  " 

"Don't  you  Uke  it?  " 

"  It's  very  pretty." 

"Then  here! — Or,  well — I  tell  you  what: — I'll 
bring  it.     I'll  come  and  see  you  and  them  boys." 

I  welcomed  the  respite.  But  I  still  owed  him  for 
taking  me  up  the  mountain.  I  felt  in  my  pocket. 
There  was  the  hard-boiled  egg. 

*'  Take  this!  "  I  gasped,  thrusting  it  at  him. 


62  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Why?  '*     He  looked  surprised. 

**  Because  I  want  you  to.  Because  I  can't  take 
it  home."  I  turned  and  ran  away  from  him  down 
the  narrow  road,  but  his  voice  pursued  me: — 

"  Is  it  a  bad  one? — Say;  I  can't  come  till  after 
hayin',  but  I'll  come.  Say;  you  never  told  me  why 
you  wanted  to  work  for  your  dinner.  Oh,  say! — I 
bet  I  know." 


VI 

Late  that  afternoon  I  turned  in  at  our  gateway, 
a  very  dusty,  weary,  hungry  minorite.  It  was  all 
very  well  not  to  beUeve  in  money,  but  what  were 
you  going  to  do  if  other  people  did  believe  in  it,  and 
would  do  things  for  you,  and  expected  to  be  paid 
for  them  ?  It  was  aU  very  well  to  co-operate,  but 
suppose  there  were  only  two  people  in  the  world 
and  one  wanted  to  co-operate  and  the  other  wanted 
to  compete  ?     What  were  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? 

My  gloomy  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  soft  chirrup. 
Lucian  had  come  home  before  me.  On  the  lawn, 
near  the  turn  of  the  road,  there  was  a  great  clump 
of  cinnamon  roses,  all  pink  and  prickles.  The 
chirrup  came  again.  I  made  a  dash  for  the  clump, 
but  Lucian's  voice  stayed  me: — 

"No,  no!  Stop  where  you  are!  Turn  round  and 
shut  your  eyes!  " 

*'Why?" 

"  Because  I  haven't  a  stitch  on." 

I  abruptly  did  as  I  was  bid.  "  Hurry  up  and  put 
them  on!  "  I  commanded. 

'*  I  can't.     I've  lost  them." 


aiffi^ 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  63 

"  Lucian! — All  your  clothes?  " 

"  Except  my  sandals.  I've  been  dodging  round 
this  rose  bush  for  an  hour,  waiting  for  you  and 
trying  not  to  be  seen.  I  was  afraid  to  run  across 
the  lawn.  One  is  so — so  visible,  without  clothes. — 
Clara,  if  you  would  go  to  my  room  and  get  me  a 
pair  of  corduroys  and  a  sweater?  Never  mind  the 
underneath." 

I  started  at  once. 

"And,  Clara!— a  belt!— Do  not  forget  a  belt  I— 
There  is  a  leather  one  somewhere." 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  clothed  and  ready  to 
tell  me  his  adventures. 

"  Now  I  know  how  it  feels  to  be  both  naked  and 
hungry,"  he  began  ecstatically,  rocking  back  and 
forth  on  his  heels.  "  You  don't  need  to  press  your 
fingers  in  your  eyes,  Clara,  I  am  tout  comme  il  faut." 

"It  is  just  that  my  head  snaps  a  little  from 
running." 

"  Snaps  from  running?  " 

"  You  see — I  haven't  had  anything  to  eat  either." 

"Clara!  You  also  have  had  adventures?  Is  it 
not  glorious?  "  He  cast  himself  upon  his  empty 
stomach  and  waved  his  heels  in  the  air.  "  Tell  me 
of  yours!  " 

"No;  you  first." 

"  Ebbene  ! — I  am  something  like  St.  Paul.  I  have 
been  hungry. — I  am.  I  have  been  naked.  I  have 
been  beaten  with  rods " 

"Oh,  Lucian!— No!" 

"  I  have  been  beaten  with  rods;  yes.  I  have 
been  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake.  Perhaps 
I  have  been  robbed;  chi  lo  sa  ?    At  any  rate  I  could 


64  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

not  find  them  where  I  left  them.  But  I  will  begin. 
— You  know  how  I  went  up  that  field?  *' 

I  nodded. 

"  And  when  I  came  into  the  woods  it  was  so 
soHtary.  Who  would  have  thought  that  any  one 
inhabited  those  woods! — I  said,  this  wiU  be  a  day 
to  practise  contemplation,  hke  Brother  Giles.  You 
remember,  Clara,  how  he  would  become  lost  in  the 
heavenly  vision,  and  deaf  and  bUnd  to  this  earth,  and 
stand  in  a  dream  ?  And  if  the  little  boys  in  the  street 
would  cry,  '  Paradiso,  Frate  Egidio,  Paradiso  I '  it 
was  enough  to  make  him  fall  into  that  holy  trance? 
But  to  contemplate  is  not  so  easy;  and  at  first  I 
thought  it  was  because  there  were  no  Httle  boys  to 
cry,  '  Paradiso !  *  and  then  I  thought  it  was  because 
of  all  those  clothes.  Contemplatives  do  not  wear 
so  many.     And  it  was  hot ! — You  cannot  imagine !  " 

"  Yes,  I  can." 

''  And  I  took  off  everything  except  only  the 
cassock,  for  that  I  was  sworn  to  wear.  And  I  hid 
them  in  a  tight  bundle — oh,  but  carefully! — among 
trees  and  rocks  by  the  side  of  a  brook  that  foamed 
and  laughed.  And  I  went  up  and  up  along  a  little 
sentiero — path? — that  became  after  a  while  a  road; 
but  rough !  And  while  I  waited  for  the  vision  of  the 
heavenly  Jerusalem  I  sang  all  my  lauds,  and  the 
Canticle  of  the  Sun,  and  Fra  Jacopone's  Povertade  ; 
and  I  made  a  new  laud,  to  the  trees.     Listen! — 

"  Blessed  be  our  Lord  God  for  our  brothers  and 
sisters  the  trees,  their  leaves  and  their  roots  and 
their  benevolent  shadows;  for  the  trees  that  dance 
and  the  trees  that  sing,  and  especially  for  the  beeches 
of  La  Vema,  because  they  sing  '  Alleluia ! ' 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  65 

"  Some  day  you  will  hear  them  at  La  Vema, 
Clara  mia,  in  the  wood  above  the  chapel  of  the 
Stigmata." 

A  reminiscent  look  gathered  in  his  eyes.  He 
rocked  back  and  forth,  humming  his  laud. 

"  And  then?  "  said  I. 

"Oh,  yes! — and  then,  when  I  did  not  expect  it, 
there  were  two  or  three  queer  Uttle  houses  of  logs, 
with  black  paper  nailed  on  the  roofs,  and  the  thinnest, 
sickest  little  girl  in  a  hammock  under  the  trees,  and 
two  women  in  one  of  the  houses  where  there  was  a 
stove.  They  were  French,  from  Canada.  I  talked 
to  them.  And  I  performed  a  work  of  mercy.  I 
sang  to  the  Uttle  girl — not  lauds,  but,  Tiens,  p'tit  Jean, 
voila  ta  soupe!  and  Malbrouck  and  Le  Sieur  de 
Framboisie.  And  when  I  asked  for  work  they  sent 
me  up  in  the  woods  where  their  men  were  chopping 
wood.  And  one  of  the  women  kissed  me  and  said 
she  would  put  another  onion  in  the  soup.  And  I 
felt  pleased  with  myself.  You  can  imagine!  But 
with  the  men  it  was  different.  There  were  three  of 
them  and  they  had  made  such  a  mess.  That  is  not 
the  way  they  cut  trees  in  the  school  of  forestry  at 
VaUombrosa.  A  great  bare  place  with  stumps  of 
the  very  largest  trees.  It  seemed  as  if  they  bled  of 
syrup,  and  everywhere  were  branches  and  chips. 
And  the  sun  came  down  dry  and  hot.  It  was  like  a 
hell.  I  did  not  wish  to  do  that  kind  of  work.  And 
I  asked  them,  '  Why  do  you  cut  down  these  beautiful 
trees  ? '  And  one  said,  *  For  the  paper  company,'  and 
one  said,  *  For  pulp,'  and  the  third  said,  *  What  is 
that  to  you  ?  *  And  I  said,  '  You  make  a  mistake. 
You  have  cut  enough.     It  dries  up  the  brooks  to  cut 

E 


66  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

the  trees.  In  Umbria,  in  Italy,  there  are  not  enough 
trees,  and  the  earth  is  dry  and  yellow.  Stop!  '  I 
said.  And  they  laughed  and  told  me,  '  They  are  not 
your  trees.'     And  I  was  becoming  angry,  and  I  said, 

*  The  trees  and  the  forests  are  not  mine,  neither  yours. 
They  are  the  good  God's.  They  are  for  all  of  us. 
You  may  cut  one  here,  one  there,  if  it  is  ripe — but 
not  this  way.'  And  they  laughed  louder,  and  they 
said  to  me,  '  What  will  you  do  about  it — you  ? ' — 
And  I  was  in  a  holy  rage  by  that  time.  You  have 
never  seen  me  that  way,  Clara;  I  am  out  of  myself 
quite  as  much  as  if  I  were  a  contemplative,  but  in 
another  manner.  And  I  said,  *  See  what  I  will  do ! ' 
And  I  sang  my  new  laud  of  the  trees  before  the 
largest  tree,  and  I  said,  '  Nomine  Patris,  Filii, 
Spiritus,'  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  the 
tree,  and  upon  the  one  next  to  it,  always  saying, 

*  Nomine  Patris  ' — and  upon  the  one  next  to  that. 
But  then  the  biggest  man  caught  me  and  swore  long 
French  swearings,  and  they  were  all  a-swear  and 
a-shout,  and  he  jerked  my  cassock  over  my  head; 
and  I  could  not  see;   and  he  beat  me  mth  a  stick." 

"  Lucian,  Lucian,  he  hurt  you!  "  I  cried. 

My  cousin  rubbed  a  suggestive  portion  of  his 
anatomy  reflectively.  "  Why,  yes;  I  beheve  so. 
But  when  one  is  in  a  holy  rage  one  feels  only  on 
the  inside." 

"  I  hope  you  kicked  him!  I  hope  you  bit  him! 
Oh,  oh,  it  is  too  dreadful!  " 

"  Yes;  is  it  not?  "  said  Lucian.  "  I  would  have 
blessed  some  more  when  he  let  me  go,  but  they  drove 
me  away;  and  there  were  three  of  them,  growTi  men. 
But  the  ones  I  blessed  they  wiU  not  touch,  I  know. 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  67 

If  you  could  have  seen  their  faces  when  I  made  the 
holy  sign!  " 

"  You  must  use  Pond's  extract." 

"  How  many  do  you  think  they  have  cut  down 
since  I  came  away?  "  He  got  up  and  walked  around 
me  restlessly.  "  Not  very  many,  for  they  would 
eat  their  dinner.  And  they  are  slow,  those  men; 
peasants.  How  many? — Clara,  I  shall  make  the 
trustees  buy  them.     I  shall  write  a  letter  to-night." 

*'  San  Francesco  did  not  buy  things,"  said  I. 

There  was  a  queer  trapped  look  in  his  eyes.  I 
have  seen  it  there  many  times  since.  He  stared  at 
me,  then  threw  out  his  hands  helplessly,  and  began 
again  to  walk. 

"  But  it  must  be  that  something  can  be  done!  " 
he  said. 

I  had  nothing  to  suggest. 

*' Ebbene — to  finish!  I  did  not  see  the  women 
when  I  came  to  the  camp;  and  the  little  sick  girl 
was  asleep.  And  suddenly  I  thought  how  it  would 
be  Franciscan  to  give  her  my  warm  cassock  because 
her  father  had  beaten  me.  And  I  laid  it  over  her 
softly.  And  the  lunch  was  in  the  pocket. — Clara, 
I  shall  write  a  letter  to  tell  the  trustees;  I  do  not 
think  it  is  true  what  that  man  said. — And  then  I  was 
naked  and  I  ran  through  the  woods  like  our  Father 
Adam.  And  do  you  know — I  could  not  find  those 
clothes! — Every  rock,  how  it  is  like  another  rock, 
in  the  woods.  And  if  it  was  a  birch  tree  or  a  pine 
tree  where  I  hid  them,  I  could  not  remember.  I 
hunted  every  centimetre." 

I  laughed. 

**  Yes;    it  is  funny.    And  you  should  have  seen 


68  THE  CHILDREN. OF  LIGHT 

me  skipping  behind  the  trees  all  the  way  home.  And 
there  were  so  many  wagons  on  this  road  where 
nothing  passes — it  would  astonish  you!  One  with 
eleven  women  in  it,  and  seven  of  them  with  pinces- 
nez,  and  two  of  them  with  opera  glasses.  I  lay  down 
fiat  behind  a  Uttle  ridge  where  bushes  grew,  and 
peeped  at  them. — Oh,  my  brothers  and  sisters  the 
trees,  you  have  been  kind  to  me  to-day.  How  shall 
I  be  kind  to  you?  How  shall  I?  Clara,  say  some- 
thing! " 


VII 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  before  Cyrus  came. 
Lucian  and  I  were  beginning  to  think  we  should  have 
to  tell  Candeloro  and  the  farmer's  wife  what  we  had 
been  doing. 

"  It  will  be  very  disagreeable,"  said  Lucian. 

I  peeped  around  the  rose  thicket  at  the  farmhouse, 
tiptoed  cautiously  to  the  fence  and  hung  over  the 
top  rail.  A  little  figure  was  coming  up  the  road. 
I  waved  to  it  and  went  back  to  Lucian. 

"  He  is  very  tired,"  I  said,  "  he  stumbles  at  every 
step." 

Lucian  looked  imhappy. 

When  we  heard  the  dragging  footsteps  we  chir- 
ruped, and  the  httle  boy  came  slowly  around  the 
great  bush  and  stood  before  us,  mute.  Involun- 
tarily we  hitched  away  from  him. 

"  Per  carita !  "  exclaimed  Lucian.  "  How  un- 
bearably you  smell!  And  you  look  like  Fra 
Jacopone  da  Todi  when  he  smeared  feathers  over 
him  and  went  to  the  wedding." 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  69 

Cyrus  surveyed  himself  indifferently.  Curly 
chicken  feathers  clung  to  his  corduroys;  there  were 
feathers  and  bits  of  hay  in  his  hair;  his  shirt  was 
blood-stained,  and  one  knee  was  caked  with  mud 
and  something  else  sticky  and  yellow  that  had  run 
down  his  leg. 

"  If  I  were  a  leper/'  he  said  drearily,  "  I  could  not 
blame  San  Francesco  for  not  wanting  to  kiss  me." 
He  held  his  hands  away  from  him,  the  dirty  little 
fingers  spread  wide. 

"Cyrus,  have  you  been  stabbed?  "  I  questioned 
fearfully. 

''No;  it  is  the  blood  of  chickens,"  he  replied  in 
that  tired,  monotonous  voice.  He  let  himself  down 
to  the  ground  stiffly,  and  sat  cross-legged. 

"  He  is  never  exalte  after  an  adventure,"  said 
Lucian.  "  But  do  not  be  too  slow,  fratellino  mio, 
you  must  wash  off  that  smell  before  supper." 

"  It  wiU  tell  quickly,"  said  Cyrus.  "  There  was  a 
man  came  behind  me  in  a  wagon.  At  least,  I  made 
the  mistake  to  think  it  was  a  man,  but  it  was  a  devil 
who  concealed  his  tail  in  his  trousers  and  his  horns 
beneath  his  hat." 

Lucian  and  I  exchanged  glances  of  tolerant  amuse- 
ment. 

"  If  San  Francesco  could  be  tempted  by  a  devil, 
why  not  I?  "  asked  Cyrus,  fixing  his  pale  eyes  upon 
us  gravely.  "  And  I  was  Uke  Brother  Rufino  who 
saw  the  vision  of  the  Crucified  and  thought  he  must 
obey  it,  and  he  did  not  know  it  was  a  devil.  Neither 
I.  And  I  saw  a  vision  of  a  freckled  farmer  who 
called  me  '  Sonny; '  and  I  thought  I  must  obey  him. 
And  there  was  no  dear  San  Francesco  to  wipe  off 


70  THE  CHILDREN, OF  LIGHT 

those  freckles  and  say  to  me,  '  Flee,  Fratellino 
Cjmis;  you  must  not  obey  this  man.'  And  when 
the  man  stopped  and  said,  '  Want  a  ride,  sonny  ?  ' 
I  did  not  flee.  I  got  up  on  the  seat.  And  I  was 
very  poUte.  I  said,  '  Monsieur,  if  you  have  work 
for  a  boy,  Httle,  like  me,  I  wiU  do  it  very  willingly 
for  my  dinner.'  And  he  said,  'Canuck,  are  you? 
You  don't  look  it.'  And  I  did  not  know  what  that 
was — Canuck;  but  I  think  now  it  was  a  word  of 
magic — a  spelUng  word.  So  he  said,  '  Wal,  sonny,  if 
you  want  to  work  you've  struck  my  busy  day.  I  got 
a  rush  order  for  broilers  for  the  "  Mount  Madison," 
due  at  the  "five  o'clock,"  and  four  dozen  eggs.'  " 

"  You  do  take  him  off  well,"  said  I.  "  It  is  exactly 
as  if  we  heard  him."  But  Cyrus  was  unmoved  by 
my  praise. 

"  I  thought  if  boilers  were  things  you  boiled 
things  in,  broilers  were  things  you  broiled  things  in," 
he  continued.  ''  But  they  are  not.  They  are 
chickens.  Not  grown-up  chickens,  and  not  fuzzy 
baby  ones,  but  in  the  middle,  halfway." 

"  Adolescent,"  suggested  Lucian.  He  was  always 
supplying  us  mth  strange  new  words. 

"  But  first  he  showed  me  to  hunt  eggs,  in  a  barn 
that  is  not  hke  ours,  but  full  of  dung.  And  before 
dinner  I  found  three  dozen;  but  I  knelt  on  one. 
This  knee." 

Cyrus  looked  down  at  the  injured  member  list- 
lessly. 

"  He  was  cross  after  that.  He  said  I  was  slow. — 
I  was. — I  am. — He  was  a  truthful  devil.  It  was 
not  until  after  the  dinner  that  he  became  truly 
fiendish.     He  took  a  chicken  in  each  hand,  by  their 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  71 

necks — so ;  and  he  wringed  them  round  and  round — 
so '' 

"Don't— don't!"  I  cried. 

'*  With  a  kind  of  flipping  jerk  he  did  it.  And  then 
he  took  two  more. — And  then  he  took  two  more " 

"  Cyrus,  don't!  "  I  shrieked. 

"  And  so  on. — And  when  they  were  dead — I  hope 
they  were  dead — he  showed  me  to  souse  them  in 
boiling  water — so;  and  to  pluck  their  feathers  out 
—so " 

"  Cyrus  Emery — you  never  did  that  wicked 
thing!  "  said  Lucian. 

"  I  had  said  I  would  work  for  him.  I  thought  I 
must  obey  him.  I  thought  it  was  my  vow  of  obedi- 
ence that  I  must.  That  is  where  I  am  Uke  Brother 
Rufino  in  the  Fioretti  ;  I  cannot  tell  a  devil  from  a 
man.  But  I  plucked  them  very  badly  because  I 
could  not  help  shutting  my  eyes  when  I  did  it.  And 
when  the  devil  saw  my  face  he  laughed.  And  he 
took  a  little  chicken  that  was  alive,  and  he  put  it  in 
my  hand  and  said,  '  Wring  it !  *  And  I  prayed  in  my 
heart,  *  O  God — O  San  Francesco — do  not  let  me  kill 
my  brother  the  chicken.'  And  I  did  not  kill  it. 
But  I  wish  I  had,  for  I  did  not  wring  it  enough — and 
it  suffered.  And  the  man  laughed.  And  by  his 
dreadful  laugh  I  knew  at  last  who  he  was.  I 
screamed,'  '  Demonio,  io  ti  sfido  I '  And  the  egg 
basket  was  there,  and  I  hit  him  with  two  of  his  eggs, 
on  his  mouth  and  in  his  eyes.  You  say  I  cannot  hit 
anything,  but  you  should  have  seen! — And  I  ran, 
and  ran,  and  ran." 

He  paused,  examining  his  fingers,  which  during 
the  latter  part  of  his  tale  he  had  held  upright  and 


72  THE  CHILDREN, OF  LIGHT 

distended  before  him,  his  elbows  resting  on  his 
knees. 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  I  with  an  assumption  of 
cheerfulness,  "  you  had  dinner;  and  that's  more 
than  Lucian  and  I  did." 

"  Yes,  I  had  it,"  he  agreed,  letting  his  fingers 
droop  dejectedly,  "  but  I  am  not  nourri.  After  I 
had  run  and  run  and  run,  I  had  a  mal  de  mer. — 
Everything." 

He  did  not  move  after  this;  he  simply  sat  there 
cross-legged  on  the  ground,  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  fingers  drooping  from  his  wrists,  his  face  ex- 
pressionless. If  he  had  been  a  Uttle  cleaner  I  could 
have  put  my  arms  around  him  and  kissed  him.  I 
wish  I  had,  anyhow.     But  I  didn't. 

"  Poverino  I  "    murmured    Lucian.     ''  Poverino  !  " 

And  Candeloro,  the  boys'  valet,  coming  round  the 
rose  bush  discovered  us. 

"  Cosa  hanno  fatto  al  bimbo  ? "  he  demanded, 
and  without  waiting  for  our  reply,  picked  up  the 
unresisting  Cyinis  and  bore  him  away. 

Lucian  and  I  sat  a  while  longer,  plucking  at  blades 
of  grass  and  avoiding  each  other's  eyes.  The  level 
rays  of  the  sun  dusted  the  hills  across  the  river  with 
a  purple  bloom.     A  vireo  rippled. 

"  If  you  don't  want  to  do  it  any  more,  we  can 
stop,"  said  Lucian. 

"  Do  what?  "  but  I  knew. 

"  Play  brothers  minor." 

"  I  am  not  playing." 

Lucian  did  not  contradict  this  statement,  he 
merely  paused. 

The  vireo  rippled. 


A  FRANCISCAN  REVIVAL  73 

"  What  do  you  suppose  San  Francesco  would  have 
done  about  those  trees?  "  Lucian  asked  presently. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  If  only  some  one  would  give  me  those  trees — 
the  way  Ser  Orlando  gave  the  woods  at  La  Vema  to 
San  Francesco,  to  be  a  holy  place  for  ever." 

"  Do  you  think  I  like  owing  that  boy  money?  "  I 
flashed.  "  If  he  were  a  rich  boy  like  you,  it  wouldn't 
have  mattered." 

"  You  might  just  as  well  say  like  us,"  said  Lucian. 

''  I  am  not  rich." 

There  was  another  pause.  Then  he  turned  to  me 
with  perplexed,  knitted  brows. 

"  I  do  not  understand  why  the  money  troubles 
you  so  much,  Clara,"  he  said.  "  To  me  it  is  the 
least  real  thing  in  all  the  world,  that  money.  I 
cannot  seem  to  make  it  real.  It  is  not  a  part  of  my 
soul." 

'*  Then  buy  the  trees!  "  I  snapped  viciously. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said — and  I  did  not  know  why.  It  was 
quite  a  minute  before  he  astonished  me  by  adding, 
"  That  does  make  it  real.  It  makes  it  a  master, 
too :  as  if  it  said,  '  You  cannot  do  without  me,' 
doesn't  it?  " 

I  was  puzzled.  I  did  not  know  what  he  was  talk- 
ing about.     I  had  to  consider  before  I  understood. 

"Is  it  a  devil  or  not,  that  money?  —  I  don't 
know,"  he  said.  "  I'm  like  Cyrus.  But,  you  see, 
if  we  have  to  live  like  other  people  when  we  grow 
up? — if  we  cannot  help  ourselves? — if  the  world  is 
made  so?  " 

"  Uncle  Lew  doesn't  live  like  other  people,"  said 
I  coldly. 


CHAPTER  III 

CONCERNING  UTOPIAS 


One   other  day  bums  unforgettable   through   that 
summer's  golden  blur. 

Under  the  date  July  29,  in  the  little  diary  I  kept 
—  for  Uncle  Lew  and  the  autobiography  —  I  find 
the  characters  of  the  Greek  alphabet  painstakingly 
inscribed,  and — 

"  Tristram  Lawrence  taught  me  this  if  I  would  call 
him  Tristram.  We  made  hay  to-day,  all  of  us. 
Remind  Lucian  to  ask  Cousin  Pauline  to  send  for 
an  algebra  for  Cuthbert  Sylvester.  Perhaps  Helen 
will  let  me  lend  her  the  money  to  go  to  college." 
Then  there  is  a  blistered  space,  and  in  a  shaky  hand 
I  had  \vritten — "  I  cannot  write  the  rest."  And 
there  is  an  old  letter  pinned  to  this  page  of  the  diary. 

It  was  during  Helen's  visit  —  for  Helen  was  the 
surprise  that  my  Cousin  Pauline  brought  me  from 
New  York.  Nicholas,  too,  was  in  the  valley,  visit- 
ing his  classmate  Mr.  Lawrence,  the  young  teacher 
in  the  white  house; — and  finally,  there  was  the 
marchese,  who  had  stopped  over  in  our  little  village 
on  his  way  to  South  America  to  cUmb  the  Andes. 
I  remember  Cyrus  looked  up  the  route  and  said  he 
could  have  gone  more  direct.  But  the  marchese  and 
my  Cousin  PauUne  were,  as  Helen  expressed  it, 
getting  engaged. 

74 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  75 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  likes  Tristram  or  Nicholas 
quite  as  well,"  I  suggested. 

"  Perhaps  she  does,"  Helen  agreed,  ''  but  they  are 
not  the  kind  she  marries." 

"  You  mean  they  are  younger  than  she  is?  " 

"  I  mean  she  is  worldly." 

"Worldly?  Oh,  Helen,  that's  because  you  don't 
like  her." 

"  I  hope  I  don't  dislike  her.  I'm  trying  very 
hard  not  to;  she  paid  my  fare  up  here  and  I'm  her 
guest.  I  don't  think  I'm  very  nice  to  talk  about 
her.  Let's  change  the  subject.  Clara,  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  burst  if  I  went  another  day  without  saying 
how  killing  I  think  those  boys  are." 

"  Killing?  "  My  tone  was  dignified.  We  were 
sitting  together  in  the  middle  of  a  haycock. 

"  The  idea  of  their  kissing  their  mother's  hand 
when  they  say  good-night." 

"  It's  Italian." 

"  And  the  way  they  talk!  " 

"  They're  losing  that.  They  talked  much  queerer 
when  I  first  came.     But  I  like  it." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  like  them  kissing  your  hand,'* 
taunted  Helen. 

"  They  don't  kiss  my  hand,"  I  protested,  blushing 
at  the  memory  of  Lucian's  greeting. 

"  But  you'd  be  sure  to  if  they  did.  You  always 
like  everything  that  everybody  does  that  you  like. 
You  think  these  boys  are  perfect.  I  don't.  That 
Lucian  acts  as  if  he  knew  everything.  You  can't 
say  a  thing  that  he  doesn't  say,  '  Oh,  yes,  I  read 
about  it  in  this  book,  or  that  book,  or  the  other 
book.'  " 


76  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"Don't  you  like  him,  Helen?"  I  inquired 
anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  pretty  sure  I  like  Cyrus  best. 
And  there's  one  thing  I  do  know — your  Cousin 
Pauline  doesn't  like  me.  She  would  like  to  speak 
to  me  the  way  she  does  to  Antoinette. — Kindly ;  oh, 
yes !  I  can't  see  what  you  could  have  told  her  about 
me,  Clara;  but  she  got  her  mind  all  fixed  for  another 
kind  of  person,  and  then — the  minute  she  saw  me, 
I  saw  it  in  her  face.  I  suppose  it  is  because  my  nose 
is  puggy." 

"  Oh,  Helen!  "  I  cried  ruefully. 

"  I  wish  she  had  liked  me."  Helen's  tone  was 
serious,  ruminative.     "  If  she  had " 

"  If  she  had?  "  I  prompted. 

"  Nothing." 

For  a  minute  or  two  neither  of  us  said  .any thing ; 
then  Helen  introduced  a  new  subject. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  coUege  after  all,"  she  remarked 
with  elaborate  carelessness. 

"  Oh,  Helen!  "     I  rose  up  on  my  elbow. 

"  At  least,  that's  what  sister  says.  I  don't  say 
it,  yet." 

"  I  don't  see  what  business  it  is  of  your  sister's," 
I  cried. 

"  WeU,  it  is  if  she  won't  help  me,  now  that  father 
has  sunk  aU  his  money  in  the  colony." 

"  Oh,  but  by  the  time  you're  old  enough  it  wiU  be 
aU  right." 

"  Father's  left  the  colony,  you  know." 

"  Left  the  colony!  " 

"Yes;— I  didn't  teU  you.  AU  that  typhoid  and 
everything    made    mother    make   him — quite    some 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  ^y 

time  ago.  And  he  got  a  chance  to  supply  for  a 
minister  in  Memphis  that  was  going  to  Europe.  He 
wrote  sister  the  colony  is  on  its  last  legs." 

"It's  no  such  thing! — Uncle  Lew  is  there — 
Uncle  Lew " 

"Don't  shout  so,  Clara!  Those  boys  wiU  think 
I'm  murdering  you." 

"  It's  no  such  thing,"  I  reiterated. 

"  Anyway,"  said  Helen,  returning  to  her  own 
grievance,  "I'm  supposed  not  to  be  going  to 
coUege." 

"  But  I  can  go,  now!  "  I  cried.  "  And  I've  been 
counting  on  your  going,  too.  And  it's  what  you 
want  to  do  more  than  anything." 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

An  illuminating  thought  sent  me  upright.  I  cast 
myself  upon  Helen  and  tried  to  get  my  arm  around 
her  stiff  and  unresponsive  neck.  "Helen!  You 
know  I  shouldn't  want  to  go  without  you;  but  you 
don't  mind  going  without  me  " — my  voice  quavered 
here;  I  could  not  help  it — "And  so — and  so — you 
go  instead  of  me;   will  you?     Say  you  wiU!  " 

"  I  wiU  not!  "  said  Helen,  freeing  herself  from  my 
embrace. 

"  I  shan't  mind  giving  up.     Truly,  I  shan't!  " 

"  You  giving  up!  "  she  cried,  and  now  she  rose 
on  the  haycock.  "  You'll  never  have  to  give  up 
anything  for  anybody,  Clara  Emery!  " 

"  Do  you  mean? — What  do  you  mean?  "  I  asked. 
"  Do  you  think  there  would  be  enough  for  both  of 
us,  perhaps?  '* 

"  No,  I  do  not !  "  she  shouted.  "  There  won't 
ever  be  enough  of  anybody  else's  money  for  me. 


y8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

I*U  go  to  coUege  on  my  own  money,  thank  you;  or 
else  I  won't  go  at  all." 

''Oh,  Helen!"  I  pleaded. 

"  I  guess  I  can  work  my  way  through.  Other 
girls  have." 

"  Have  they?  I  should  like  to  do  that!  "  said  I. 
"  It  would  be  co-operative." 

"  You!  "  she  snorted.  "  You'll  never  have  to  do 
any  real  work." 

*'  I  don't  see  why." 

"  You  will  see  why  when  you're  as  old  as  I  am." 

"  You're  only  thirteen." 

"  I'll  be  fourteen  next  month;  and  I  wear  sixteen- 
year-old  misses*  suits.  And  when  you  go  to  New 
York  to  live  with  sister  you  get  old,  right  away.  I 
know  a  great  deal  more  about  Hfe  than  you  do, 
Clara.  I'm  going  to  be  allowed  a  year  at  high  school 
and  then  I'm  going  to  a  commercial  coUege  to  learn 
typewriting  and  stenography.  That's  what  sister 
says.  I  don't.  But  if  I  get  ahead  of  sister  I'll  be 
doing  well.  She  did  say,  when  your  cousin  came  to 
see  us,  to  invite  me  here — No;  I  guess  I  won't  tell 
that." 

''Yes;  do!" 

"  No." 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  something  I'm  not  going  to  do,  anyway. 
Sister  would;  but  sister  and  I  are  different.  She 
beUeves  in  taking  anything  anybody  wiU  give  you. 
She  says  it's  the  only  way  to  get  on  in  this  world. 
Sister  and  I  quarrel  like  fury  about  eveiy thing." 

"  Then  she  wouldn't  mind  your  going  to  coUege 
with  me?  " 


i^it^ 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  79 

"  It  doesn't  matter  whether  she  minds  or  not. 
It's  none  of  her  business." 

We  must  have  been  quiet  for  five  minutes.  I 
thought  all  round  this  problem  of  Helen's  schooling 
and  at  last  I  had  a  new  idea. 

"  Helen,"  I  said,  "  would  you  take  enough  money  to 
go  to  college  if  I  just  lent  it  to  you?  You  could  pay 
it  back  afterwards." 

*'  I  don't  know,"  she  said  reluctantly. 

*'  That  means  you  will! — Oh,  dear  Helen,  please!** 

**  I  don't  want  to."  But  she  let  me  hold  her  hand 
a  few  minutes. 


II 

*'  I  can't  imagine  her  in  a  cassock,"  Cyrus  said; 
and  by  tacit  consent  we  did  not  obtrude  our  Fran- 
ciscanism  upon  Helen.  As  our  guest  she  took  the 
lead  in  our  games.  She  would  probably  have  taken 
it  in  any  case,  but  we  had  the  secret  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  we  voluntarily  gave  way  to  her.  And 
the  games  that  Helen  liked  to  play  were  none  of 
them  remarkable  for  spiritual  significance.  We 
played  tag,  and  we  climbed  trees — a  new  experience 
for  my  cousins.  Lucian  invariably  introduced  an 
intellectual  element  into  this  exercise  by  proclaiming 
himself  the  Ancient  Mariner,  or  Columbus;  but  the 
imaginative  appeal  was  never  too  complex.  Helen 
was  very  good  for  us,  I  am  sure.  After  the  marchese 
came  she  put  us  up  to  begging  to  go  with  him  up 
our  mountains ;  and  in  those  days  the  marchese  was 
always  ready  to  please  us.  There  was  an  agreeable 
simpKcity    about    him    that    was    very    winning. 


8o  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Nicholas,  however,  plumbed  his  possibilities  when  he 
said  that  he  ought  always  to  be  cHmbing  mountains; 
that  it  was  a  pity  not  to  leave  him  "  on  his  stalk." 

With  Nicholas  my  Cousin  PauHne  communed 
along  architectural  Hues.  Under  her  stimulus  he 
developed  a  theory  concerning  peasant  housing, 
which  he  expounded  diagrammatically  on  blue 
print  paper.  I  remember  he  had  a  great  roll  of  it 
with  him  that  day  in  the  hayfield,  and  the  sheets 
kept  blowing  away.  It  was  understood  that  some 
day,  when  the  marchese  came  back  from  South 
America,  Nicholas  was  to  rebuild  the  peasants' 
houses  on  the  marchese's  estates. 

While  Helen  and  I  sat  on  the  haycock  holding 
hands,  Nicholas  came  up  to  us  and  said  in  his  solemn, 
joking  fashion,  that  he  wished  he  were  the  marchese, 
for  several  reasons. 

"Not  really!"  I  protested,  horrified  at  the 
democratic  issue  involved. 

"  Catch  me  hiking  off  to  Chimborazo,  if  I  were," 
he  added,  missing  my  point. 

And  then  my  Cousin  Pauline  called,  "  Come, 
children!  We  are  aU  going  to  help,  this  afternoon. 
I  want  Lucian  and  Cyrus  to  know  the  joy  of  getting 
in  their  own  hay.  Think,  darlings! — ^This  is  what 
St.  Francis  used  to  do " 

"  Only  it  was  not  his  own  hay,"  said  the  accurate 
Cyrus. 

"  And  perhaps  this  very  afternoon,  far  away  in 
Russia,  Count  Leo  Tolstoy  in  his  homespun  blouse — 
like  ours"  (we  were  wearing  hand -woven  Hnens 
that  summer) — "  is  working  in  his  hot  fields  with  his 
peasants,  just  as  we  are." 


A^^ra 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  8i 

"  And  to  complete  the  historic  parallel  you  ought 
to  cite  Marie  Antoinette,  you  know,"  said  Tristram. 

"Scoffer!"  laughed  my  Cousin  Pauline.  "But 
some  day  he  shall  see  that  we  are  in  earnest,  shall  he 
not,  Clara?  " 

"  Oh,  Miss  Clara  is  in  earnest,"  he  admitted,  his 
eyes  quizzing  my  Cousin  Pauline. 

That  "  Miss  Clara  "  of  Tristram's  always  flattered 
me  against  my  will.  He  had  a  way,  too,  of  smiling 
into  my  eyes  as  if  we  had  a  secret  between  us.  I 
used  to  blush  and  wriggle,  and  bat  my  eyes  de- 
fensively to  evade  that  intimate  look,  but  it  made  me 
feel  tender  and  delicious,  and  yet  improper,  in  a  quite 
new  way. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  what  he  is  doing?" 
Helen  would  say  scornfully.  "  He's  flirting.  I've 
seen  them  flirt  with  sister." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so !  "  I  would  protest,  mortified, 
yet  secretly  pleased. 

Tristram  and  Nicholas  were  with  us  almost  daily 
at  this  time.  There  was  talk  of  sending  the  boys 
to  the  preparatory  school  where  Tristram  taught  the 
classics,  and  he  and  my  Cousin  Pauline  used  to  go 
over  the  prospectuses  of  different  schools  together. 
I  remember  hearing  my  Cousin  Pauline  tell  him  that 
she  leaned  on  him  intellectually.  I  remember,  too, 
that  I  did  not  know  what  the  "  classics  "  were  until 
that  day  in  the  hayfield. 

Tristram  had  tossed  his  coat  on  a  haycock  and 
Lucian  must  have  seen  the  book  in  the  pocket  of  it, 
for  presently,  as  we  raked,  we  came  upon  him  under 
the  shady  side  of  the  haycock,  on  his  stomach,  turning 
the  pages. 

F 


82  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

''Hollo!  where  did  you  get  that?"  Tristram 
exclaimed,  and  snatched  it.  "  Yes,  it's  Greek." 
He  did  not  look  altogether  pleased  with  Lucian. 
But  Lucian,  oblivious  as  usual  to  all  else  when  there 
was  a  book  about,  pressed  an  eager  finger  on  a  page, 
and  uttered  his  mandate: — 

"Read!" 

"  You  wouldn't  understand." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Lucian,  casting  himself  down 
on  the  ground  again.  "  You  know  you  don't  want 
to  rake  hay." 

So  Tristram  laughed  and  sat  down,  drawing  me 
down  beside  him. 

"  Are  we  really  getting  in  hay,  or  are  we  only 
playing  getting  it  in?"  asked  Cyrus.  "Because  if 
we  are  only  playing,  I  will  sit  down  too." 

His  mother,  with  her  rake  over  her  shoulder  at  the 
truly  Arcadian  angle,  was  sauntering  toward  the 
river-trees  with  the  marchese.  Helen  and  Nicholas 
were  over  by  the  hay-cart,  throwing  hay  at  each 
other. 

Cyrus  sat  down  beside  me. 

Even  as  Tristram's  eyes  had  caressed  me  with  his 
smile,  so  now  they  caressed  his  open  book — as  if  it 
were  dear  to  him.  But  there  was  something  more  in 
the  smile  than  had  been  there  when  it  was  for  me; 
something  that  was  never  in  those  eyes  for  any 
woman.  I  saw  it,  and  felt  humiUated,  although  I 
did  not  know  then  that  the  something's  name  was 
reverence. 

OvKovv,  -qv  S'  cyw,  /i,€Ta^aAA.€t  fiXv  rpoirov  tlvo.  TOLovSe  k^ 
oXtyapxtttS  €ts  SrjfiOKpaTLav, 

he  read.    He  had  a  low,  resonant  voice,  and  the 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  83 

words  came  from  his  lips  delicately  cadenced,  like 
a  strange  music.     We  listened  rapt. 

81  dirXrjcTTiav   rov   irpoKeifievov   dyadov,  tov  ws  TrXovaKoraTov 
Setv  ytyvecrdaL'^  ttws  S'q' 

On  and  on  he  read,  forgetting  us. 

"Are,  of/xat,  ap^ovres  €V  avrrj  ol  ap^ovres  Sto,  to  ttoAAo, 
KeKTrjcrdaLy  ovk  WeXovcrLV  etpyetv  vofMO)  twv  vewv  ecroL  dv 
aKoXaa-TOL  yiyvwvrai;  prq  t^etvat  avrois  avaAicr/cetv  re  koX 
€i(r8av€L  ^ovT€S  ert  ttAovctko  repot  re  kol  evrtp^orepoL  yiyviDvrai. 
IlavTos  ye  fjidXXov. 

"Now,  what  does  it  mean?"  Lucian  asked. 

"  Well,  let's  see  what  you  make  of  it."  Tristram 
translated  slowly: — 

"  *  Well,  said  I,  is  it  not  in  this  way  that  the  change 
arises  from  oligarchy  into  democracy?  —  they  are 
insatiable ' — greedy — '  of  wealth  which  they  propose  to 
themselves  as  their  end  :  and  the  rulers,  who  know  very 
well  that  their  own  power  is  based  on  property,  refuse 
to  prevent ' — curtail — '  by  law  the  extravagance  of  the 
spendthrift  youth  because  by  their  ruin  they  ' — the  rulers, 
you  know — '  will  gain;  they  lend  them  money,  and  buy 
their  land  away  from  them,  and  increase  in  wealth  and 
honour  ? 

"  '  Exactly. 

"  *  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  a  state  you  cannot 
have  in  the  citizens  the  love  of  wealth  and  the  spirit  of 
moderation  ;  one  or  the  other  will  have  to  be  disregarded. 

"  *  That  is  tolerably  clear. 

'' '  And  in  oligarchical  states,  from  carelessness  and 
the  indulgence  of  their  extravagance,  men  of  good  family 
have  often  been  reduced  to  beggary. 


84  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

" '  Yes,  often. 

"  'And  nevertheless  they  continue  to  remain  in  the  city; 
there  they  are,  and  they  have  stings  and  arms,  and  some 
owe  money,  and  some  are  no  longer  citizens :  there  is 
a  third  class  who  are  in  both  predicaments ' — that  is, 
owing  money,  and  also  being  no  longer  citizens,  you 
know."  Lucian  nodded.  — "  'And  these  hate  and 
conspire  against  those  who  have  obtained  their  property, 
and  hate  and  conspire  against  anybody  else,  and  are 
eager  for  revolution. 
That  is  true. 

"  '  On  the  other  hand,  the  business  men,  stooping  as 
they  walk,  and  pretending  not  to  see  the  people  whom 
they  have  already  ruined,  insert  the  sting ' — their  money, 
that  is — '  into  any  one  who  is  not  on  guard  against  them, 
and  get  back  the  parent  or  principal  sum  many  times 
over  multiplied  into  a  family  of  children '  " 

"How?"  asked  Cyrus, — "children?  I  thought 
it  was  money?  " 

"  Oh,  wait  till  he  stops,"  said  Lucian.  "  Cents  are 
dollars'  children,  he  means." 

"  *  This  is  the  way  in  which  they  cause  the  drone 
and  the  pauper  to  abound  in  the  state. 

Yes,  he  said,  there  are  plenty  of  them,  that  is 
certain. 

The  evil  is  like  a  fire  that  is  blazing  up,  and  thai 
they  will  not  put  out  either  by  placing  restriction  on  the 
disposition  of  property  or '  " 

"It  is  people  talking,"  said  Lucian. 

"  Good  for  you!  "  said  Tristram.  "  Yes;  it  is  a 
dialogue  of  Plato." 

"  Plato !  "  exclaimed  Lucian,  bending  over  the  book. 

"  Is  he  an  immigrant?  "  I  asked. 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  85 

"  Immigrant?  "  said  Tristram. 

"  Because  he  doesn't  write  in  English." 

"  How  could  he  write  in  English?  "  cried  Lucian. 
"  English  was  not  yet  invented." 

I  looked  from  Lucian  to  Tristram  in  baffled  silence. 

"  You  thought  he  was  alive!  "  exclaimed  Tristram. 
"  You  thought " 

"  But  he  is  talking  about  alive  things,"  said  I. 
"  American  things.     He  couldn't  be  dead  very  long." 

"  Not  very,"  Tristram  admitted.  "  Something 
over  two  thousand  years." 

Lucian  shouted  joyously. 

"  Do  you  suppose  it  is  that  way  that  grandfather 
made  our  money?  "  inquired  Cyrus.  "By  lending 
them  money  and  buying  out  their  land?  " 

Tristram  looked  embarrassed. 

"It  was  in  Greece.  Do  you  not  understand?  " 
explained  Lucian. 

"  Oh!  "  said  Cyrus  and  I. 

"  But  it  is  the  same  as  American,"  I  insisted. 
"  Uncle  Lew  and  father  used  to  talk  Hke  that  about 
American  millionaires." 

"Tell  about  it!"  Lucian  clamoured.  "What  is 
its  name?  What  are  they  saying?  How  shall  we 
understand  until  we  shall  know  the  beginning  ?  Stop 
guessing,  Clara,  and  let  him  talk!  " 

We  all  three  fixed^our  unwinking,  limpet-like 
attention  upon  this  wise  young  man ;  and  he,  looking 
off  through  the  screening  trees  to  the  river,  told  us 
the  book's  name — The  Republic;  told  us  of  Socrates 
and  his  queer  casual  way  of  coaxing  the  Athenians 
to  school;  of  Plato,  the  prize  scholar,  the  wide- 
browed  man. 


86  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Then  I  fell  a-musing  on  Tristram's  steep  brow,  on 
his  long  greyhound  face,  on  the  pale  brown  of  his 
hair,  the  pale  grey  of  his  flannel  shirt,  the  pale  blue 
of  his  necktie,  all  of  which  details  gave  me  a  dreamy 
personal  pleasure  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  felt 
before.     He  had  asked  me  to  call  him  Tristram ! 

"  Like  Clara's  colony,"  Lucian  was  saying, 
"  except  that  Socrates  is  only  talking,  but  at  New 
Hope  they  Hve  it." 

I  picked  up  the  threads  of  the  discourse  as  best 
I  could.  This  republic,  it  seemed,  was  Socrates' 
dream  of  an  ideal  commonwealth.  The  word  was 
familiar  to  me  and  quickened  my  attention.  Uncle 
Lew  meant  New  Hope  to  be  an  ideal  commonwealth. 
But  there,  it  was  soon  evident,  the  resemblance 
between  Uncle  Lew  and  Socrates  ended.  There  were 
to  be  no  jacks-of -all-trades  in  Socrates'  colony.  He 
would  never  have  allowed  Brother  Barton  to  build 
the  kitchen  chinmey.  And  yet  somebody  had  to 
build  the  chimney. 

"  Slaves!  "  we  aU  three  exclaimed  in  horror. 

"  Not  in  ours,"  said  Cyrus. 

Our  good  opinion  of  Plato  was  sadly  modified. 

''  There  will  always  be  slaves,"  Tristram 
announced  definitely,  looking  from  one  to  another 
of  us  with  his  amused  smile. 

''You  forget!"  cried  Cyrus.  "The  Civil  War. 
Clara's  grandfather  fought  and  died  to  free  the 
slaves.     He  was  our  great-uncle." 

"  Yet  there  are  still  slaves  in  America,  Uncle  Lew 
says,"  said  I.  "  All  working  people  will  be  slaves 
more  and  more  until  we  get  rid  of  competition." 

"  You  too  are  a  slave.  Miss  Clara,"  Tristram  said. 


itt^'%/ 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  Sy 

smiling.  "  A  slave  to  an  idea.  I  am  a  slave  *' — 
he  turned  his  head  and  looked  toward  the  mountains. 

"  To  what?  "  asked  Lucian. 

"  To  a  mood — to  a  passion — to  an  idea — I  have 
many  chains.'* 

We  sat  and  looked  at  him,  and  groped  in  silence 
among  these  abstruse  thoughts. 

"  Until  philosophers  are  kings  and  kings  are  philo- 
sophers," said  he,  "  cities  will  never  cease  from  ill. 
As  the  man  is,  so  the  state  must  be.'* 

We  considered  this  also. 

"  Then  if  the  man  is  a  poet  the  state  is  a  poem," 
cried  Lucian  suddenly,  and  laughed  with  delight. 

Tristram  chuckled,  and  remarked  that  it  was  a 
pity  Lucian  could  not  have  said  that  to  Socrates. 

Socrates,  it  would  appear,  had  no  use  for  poets; 
they  and  their  poetry  were  to  be  banished  from  his 
commonwealth. 

Lucian  was  aghast,  indignant.  "  No  Dante!  "  he 
cried.     "  No " 

"  Is  yours  going  to  be  that  kind — with  slaves?  " 
Cyrus  asked  Tristram. 

**Why?  Won't  you  vote  for  me?"  Tristram 
laughed. 

"  No!  "  the  boys  shouted. 

"  And  Miss  Clara?  "  said  Tristram. 

"  In  that  kind  of  government  the  women  don't 
have  any  vote,  you  told  us,"  I  answered. 

Then  we  heard  Helen  calling — "Clara!  Here's 
somebody  to  see  you." 

And  we  got  up  and  went  away,  followed  by 
Tristram's  laughter. 


88  THE  CHILDREN>  OF  LIGHT 


HI 

There  was  a  boy  with  Helen,  and  my  heart  sank 
when  I  saw  him.  He  had  a  rustic  picture-frame  in 
his  hand. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said.  "You're  some 
later'n  we  are  gettin*  in  your  hay." 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  we  three  in  solemn  chorus. 

"  Here's  your  frame,"  he  continued.  "  But 
there's  no  charge.     I'm  goin'  to  give  it  to  you." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  I  whispered. 

"  You  can  show  it  to  people,  you  know,  and  get 
them  to  give  me  orders." 

"  Oh,  no !  "  I  repeated. 

Cuthbert  turned  to  Lucian.  "  Twenty-five  cents," 
he  said.  "Don't  you  want  me  to  make  you  one  to 
put  her  picture  in?  " 

"  I  do !  "  said  C5mis.     "  But  must  it  be  so  sticky?  " 

"  It  lasts  longer,"  explained  Cuthbert.  "  But 
then  you  could  always  afford  a  new  one." 

"  This  is  that  boy,"  I  said  to  Lucian. 

My  Cousin  Pauline,  again  with  her  rake  over  her 
shoulder,  had  come  to  where  we  stood,  by  the  hay 
cart. 

"He  is  a  friend  of  grandfather's,"  explained 
Lucian.     "  He  has  come  to  call.     Clara  knows  him." 

"  And  he  sells  these  picture-frames  to  earn  money 
to  go  through  college,"  said  Cyrus. 

My  Cousin  Pauline  examined  the  frame  and 
handed  it  to  Nicholas  with  eyebrows  uplifted  in  mock 
horror.  Cuthbert  was  looking  at  her  with  intelli- 
gent comprehension,  but  no  sign  of  embarrassment. 


..M 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  89 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  help  you  with  your  hay,  if  you're 
short-handed/'  he  remarked. 

And  she  called  him  a  "  true  neighbour,"  patting 
him  on  the  shoulder.  Those  intent  eyes  of  his 
searched  her  face  with  impersonal  curiosity. 

"  And  I  am  sure  you  will  know  more  about  hay- 
making than  any  of  us,"  she  added,  turning  from 
him  with  the  little  movement  of  dismissal  she  in- 
voluntarily used  when  annoyed. 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  I  did,"  he  acquiesced. 
"  Shall  I  take  this  fork?  "  And  before  any  one  could 
reply,  he  had  tossed  half  a  haycock  into  the  bottom 
of  the  cart. 

*'  Now  we  are  getting  down  to  business,"  said 
Nicholas,  chmbing  into  the  cart  and  spreading  the 
hay.  "  They  ought  to  have  this  young  man  at  New 
Hope  to  show  them  how,  oughtn't  they,  Clara?  " 

"  He'll  expect  to  be  paid,"  murmured  Helen  in 
my  ear. 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  be  paid  for  the  frame." 

"  I  hate  that  kind  of  boy." 

'*  Why,  Helen !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  He  is  so  practical, 
I  thought  you  would  Uke  him.  He  reminds  me  a 
little  of  you." 

Helen  looked  as  if  she  could  have  murdered  me. 
Then  turned  her  back.  When  I  put  my  arm  around 
her  and  looked  into  her  face  I  saw  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Go  away!  "  she  said.     But  I  clung  to  her. 
1  mean 

"  Go  away!  " 

And  I  went,  sadly,  around  to  the  other  side  of  the 
cart,   where   Cyrus  was  insisting  upon  wielding  a 


90  THE  CHILDREN  ^  OF  LIGHT 

pitchfork  to  the  peril  of  any  one  who  came  within 
a  radius  of  five  feet  of  him. 

"Am  I  too  Httle,  Clara? — Am  I?"  he  expostu- 
lated, staggering  toward  the  wagon,  his  fork 
dripping  hay. 

"  But  the  fork  is  so  big,  Cyrus." 

"Well,  I  cannot  help  that,  can  I?  '* 

He  shook  the  few  remaining  wisps  into  the  wagon 
and  started  back  for  another  bundle. 

"  He  only  trails  it  aU  over  the  place,"  protested 
Lucian. 

"  I  shall  learn,"  Cyrus  said.  And  he  might  have  if 
the  afternoon  had  been  long  enough;  but  when  our 
farmer  caUed  out,  "  Last  load  to-day! — How  many's 
comin'  ?  You,  Helen  ?  —  Cyrus  —  comin'  ?  "  Cyrus 
was  stiU  in  the  ranks  of  unskilled  labour. 

He  and  Helen  scrambled  upon  the  load  and  went 
off  to  the  bam.  The  grown  people  had  long  since 
retired  to  the  shade.  Lucian  and  I  plumped  into 
the  middle  of  twin  haycocks.  Cuthbert  remained 
standing,  between  us,  chewing  a  wisp  of  hay. 

"  I  guess  I'U  go  home  now,"  he  suggested,  "  it's 
quite  a  walk.  You  don't  happen  to  have  an  old 
algebray  you'd  be  willin'  to  lend  me? — I'd  put  a 
cover  on  it  to  keep  it  clean." 

We  were  much  impressed. 

"  I  am  to  have  one  when  I  go  to  school,"  said 
Lucian,  "  and  I'll  get  mamma  to  send  for  two." 

"A  new  one  ?  "  Cuthbert  drew  a  long  breath.  No 
word  of  thanks  escaped  him,  but  the  satisfaction  in 
his  eyes  was  unmistakable. 

"  Say,"  he  said  after  a  moment,  "  did  she  tell  you 
about  that  day  on  the  mountain?  " 


.tmi 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  91 

Lucian  nodded. 

"  And  the  way  she  tried  to  stuff  me  about  every- 
body bein'  as  rich  as  everybody  else,  sometime? — 
Do  you  beHeve  that?  " 

"  It  ought  to  be,"  said  Lucian. 

"  It  will  be,"  said  I.  "  My  Uncle  Lew,  down 
South,  is  making  it  be,  as  fast  as  he  can." 

"  Why  ought  it?  "  asked  Cuthbert,  ignoring  me. 

''  Because — "  began  Lucian,  pondering.  "  Do  you 
think  anybody  ought  to  be  as  poor — as  you  are?  " 

"You  bet  I  don't!" 

"  Then  why  don't  you  think  everybody  ought  to 
be  as  rich  as — well,  as  we  are?  " 

Cuthbert  was  plainly  disconcerted.  He  frowned, 
studying  us.     "  But  she  says  she  wants  to  be  poor." 

"  But  don't  you  see,"  I  cried,  "  if  everybody  is  the 
same,  there  won't  be  rich  and  poor.  That's  what 
Uncle  Lew  says." 

The  children  in  the  rural  districts  of  New  England 
no  longer  quote  Scripture,  else  Cuthbert  might  have 
retorted  that  we  have  the  poor  with  us  always.  As 
it  was,  he  could  only  look  at  me  and  say — "  Well, 
your  grandfather  was  a  mighty  smart  man,  but  he 
never  talked  that  way.  He  looked  out  for  number 
one."  Then  he  turned  and  went  to  the  upper 
gateway. 

*'  Come  again!  "  called  Lucian. 

"  Yes,  I  will. — For  the  algebray." 

IV 

"  Shall  we  go  back  to  the  grown-ups  now?  "  said 
Lucian.     "  You  see  if  they  are  not  talking  about 


92  THE  CHILDREN, OF  LIGHT 

Tolstoy  and  economic  soundness.  I  wonder  why 
grown  people  think  it  worth  while  to  go  on  talking 
round  and  round  for  hours,  without  saying  anything  ? 
— If  they  are  men  and  women,  I  mean.  If  they  are 
only  men  they  get  it  said.  You  listen  to  Tristram 
and  Nicholas  talking — and  then  you  listen  to  them 
talking  to  mother." 

"  Sometimes  Cousin  Pauline  talks  as  if  she  would 
really  go  to  live  at  New  Hope. — Do  you  think  she 
would?  '*  I  asked. 

"Why,  no!" 

"But   then " 

"  She  thinks  she  would,  of  course." 

My  Cousin  Pauline  and  the  marchese  were  stroll- 
ing toward  us  across  the  meadow.  She  sometimes 
walked  a  bit  of  the  way  to  the  viUage  with  him,  when 
he  went  before  dark. 

" Lucian  dearest,"  she  called,  "come  and  get  the 
mail-bag.     There  is  something  in  it  for  Clara." 

He  brought  the  bag  to  my  haycock.  "  It's  quite 
heavy,"  he  said,  and  dove  into  it,  bringing  out  a 
letter  and  a  parcel.     "  Both  for  you." 

The  letter  was  from  Uncle  Lew,  and  I  had  not  heard 
from  him  for  several  weeks.  I  tore  off  the  end  of 
the  envelope  in  a  happy  flutter. 

"  It  feels  like  books,"  Lucian  said,  busy  with  the 
string  of  the  parcel.     "  I'll  open  it  for  you." 

I  remember  I  hugged  the  letter  to  me  for  the 
briefest  moment ;  and  the  rim  of  the  sun  and  the  rim 
of  a  western  hiU  kissed ;  and  little  sharp  black  pine 
tree-tops  began  to  prick  up,  up,  into  the  sun.  And 
at  first,  when  I  turned  to  the  letter,  I  could  not  read 
because  of  the  dazzle  in  my  eyes. 


r^^^. 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  93 

"  My  little  Clara," — Uncle  Lew  began, — "  This  is 
a  sad  letter  for  a  little  girl,  and  if  I  were  coming  north 
I  would  wait  and  tell  you  instead  of  writing — but 
when  I  leave  here  I  go  west. 

"  Your  Aunt  Camilla  died  three  days  ago  of 
malignant  typhoid.  She  was  only  sick  a  week. 
She  was  worn  out  with  nursing  the  other  people,  and 
there  was  no  power  of  resistance  left.  I  ought  never 
to  have  brought  her  here.  She  was  too  frail  for  this 
hard  life.  But  she  is  taken  away  now,  out  of  reach 
of  my  stupidity,  my  selfishness,  and  I  am  never  to  be 
allowed  to  make  her  suffer  hardship  any  more.  Give 
thanks  for  that  when  you  say  your  prayers,  little 
Clara;  and  some  day  when  I  am  used  to  missing  her, 
I  wiU  give  thanks  too. 

"  The  mortgage  was  foreclosed  the  day  she  died. 
I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that  it  must  come,  and 
when  Baldwin  drew  out  I  knew  it  was  only  a  question 
of  weeks.  But  with  aU  these  sick  folks  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  hang  on  and  hope.  There  are  only 
ten  of  us  here  now — strays  and  homeless,  mostly — 
three  of  them  widows,  and  five  children,  and  a  feeble- 
minded boy  who  came  here  with  his  mother  after 
you  left,  and  Grandpa  Pugh.  Poor  old  man! — 
think  of  his  weathering  the  epidemic! — and  his 
daughter  and  my  wife  both  gone!  But  that's  the 
way  of  it.  There's  nothing  for  him  but  an  institution, 
that  I  can  see;  but  it'll  break  his  heart.  Perhaps 
it  might  as  well.  He's  very  bitter  against  me,  but 
then  he's  been  almost  childish  since  his  daughter 
died.  As  soon  as  I  get  them  all  placed,  and  money 
to  pay  their  railroad  fares,  I  go  west  to  work  on 
a  salary  in  a  big  manufacturing  plant  where,  as  far 


94  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

as  I  understand  it,  I'm  to  be  a  sort  of  go-between, 
adjusting  things  between  the  men  and  the  employer. 
Social  Secretary  they  call  it.  It's  a  new  philanthropic 
industrial  dodge  to  keep  the  men  quiet,  as  far  as  I 
can  see.  There  is  some  talk  of  profit-sharing.  Judge 
Acton  got  me  the  job,  and  for  his  sake  I  mean  to  give 
it  a  try.     But  I  never  was  one  for  half  measures. 

"  You  mustn't  take  this  too  hard,  my  Uttle  girl.  I 
guess  we'U  have  to  make  up  our  minds  that  this  sort 
of  separatist  experiment  can  never  be  the  way  out. 
We  won't  try  to  start  another,  you  and  I;  not  yet 
awhile.  But  if  it  was  to  do  over  again — even  with 
all  I  know — I  suppose  I  would.  I  beheve  it  was  the 
thing  to  do,  when  I  did  it;  and  I  believe  your  Aunt 
Camilla  would  say  so  too.  All  the  time  she  was 
delirious  she  kept  saying  over  and  over — '  Never 
you  mind,  Lew;  we'll  stick  it  out.  Never  you  mind. 
Lew;  we'll  stick  it  out.'  She  was  a  brave  woman, 
and  a  saint,  and  a  martyr.  She  didn't  know  me  after 
the  first  day.     It  was  the  worst  case  we- had. 

"  Some  day  I'm  going  to  answer  your  dear  httle 
letters,  but  I  can't  now.  You  will  write  to  Uncle 
Lew,  won't  you,  when  he  is  way  out  west?  You're 
the  one  real  bright  spot  in  my  Ufe  now,  little  Clara, 
and  you  must  be  a  good  girl  and  not  fret  over  all  this. 
Every  stick  and  stone  that  can  be  sold  off  the  place 
is  being  sold,  but  I  came  across  the  Life  ofRoheH  Owen 
among  some  books  this  morning  and  I'm  sending  it 
to  you.     I've  written  your  name  in  it. 

"  They're  going  to  sell  the  very  lumber  the  houses 
are  made  of,  and  cart  it  off  to  build  tenements  for 
cotton  operatives  in  the  mill  village  south  of  here. 
Even  the  old  plantation  house  is  to  be  torn  down. 


CONCERNING  UTOPIAS  95 

But  there  will  still  be  houses  left;  narrow  houses. 
I  have  set  a  wooden  cross  above  your  Aunt  Camilla's 
grave. 

**  Now,  dearie,  I'll  write  you  my  new  address  when 
I  get  there.  And  you  mustn't  think  very  much 
about  these  things.  If  you  and  those  two  boys  are 
going  to  college  you've  got  your  work  cut  out  for  you 
for  a  few  years.  And  when  you  get  your  chance  to 
reform  the  world,  you  want  to  be  good  and  ready  for 
it,  you  know.     I  wasn't. 

*'  I  kissed  your  Aunt  Camilla  for  you.  She  didn't 
know  me  after  the  first  day.  If  only  she  might 
have. —  Always  your  devoted  Uncle  Lew." 

I  remember  a  thin  thread  of  moon  that  hurried 
down  the  sky  after  the  sun  had  gone.  I  remember 
a  Httle  bright  cloud  that  filmed  and  frayed  away.  I 
remember  the  slow  dusking  of  the  meadow,  and  the 
soft  whispering  of  the  twilight  sounds. 

When  there  was  no  longer  Ught  enough  to  read  by, 
Lucian  sighed,  and  looked  up  from  the  Autobiography 
of  Robert  Owen. 

"What  a  nice  book!"  he  said.  "Let  us  write 
our  autobiographies  when  we  grow  up." 

Something  made  a  queer  noise.  I  remember  I 
thought  it  sounded  like  a  puppy's  whine. 

Lucian  got  to  his  knees  and  peered  at  me  and  said, 
"  Clara!  "  with  a  httle  note  of  fright  in  his  voice. 
But  I  had  sat  so  very  still  so  long,  that  I  kept  on 
sitting  still. 

"  Are  you  asleep,  sitting  up  Hke  that?  "  he  asked 
me  fearfully;  and  putting  up  his  hand  he  touched 
mine. 


96  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

I  suppose  it  was  cold,  for  he  gave  a  sharp  scream 
and  flung  himself  upon  me,  crying — "  Clara,  Clara! 
are  you  dead? — No! — No! — No! — No! — "  and 
squeezing  me  tight,  and  kissing  me  violently. 

And  a  voice  that  never  was  mine,  a  very  high, 
thin,  sharp  little  voice,  said — "  Everything  is  dead. 
Aunt  Camilla  is  dead.  The  colony  is  dead.  The 
autobiography  is  dead — "  And  then  terrible, 
coughing,  sobbing  sounds  came  tearing  up  into  my 
throat. 

"  No ! — No ! — No ! — "  Lucian  shouted,  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  drown  those  other  sounds. 

I  remember  how  wet  his  cheek  was  against  mine. 
I  remember  I  thought,  "  Lucian  is  crying."  And 
then  I,  too,  was  crying,  the  ordinary  way,  with 
tears. 


CHAPTER  IV 

EPISTOLARY  AND   POETICAL 

I  WANTED  Lucian  to  write  these  memories.  I  wanted 
him  to  make  another  Prelude,  that  should  do  for  the 
beginning  of  the  twentieth  century  what  Words- 
worth's did  for  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth — 
reveal  the  spirit  of  the  century's  youth,  its  hope  and 
its  despair,  its  failure,  its  triumph,  if  there  be  any 
triumph.  I  had  a  dream  of  the  immortal  thing  as  he 
must  write  it — in  blank  verse,  nobly;  not  Words- 
worth's blank  verse,  meditative,  reflective,  pro- 
cessional, but  Lucian's  own:  ripphng  like  a  brook; 
rioting  Hke  a  torrent,  booming  like  a  thunder-clap; 
technically  nearer  the  verse  of  Elizabethan  Fletcher 
than  any  I  know ;  swift,  flexible,  with  its  lines  running 
over,  its  feminine  endings,  its  syllables  in  a  hurry — 
yet  always  within  bounds,  always  obedient  to  the 
norm. 

But  Lucian  laughs  and  will  not.  He  says  blank 
verse  is  not  the  inevitable,  reveaHng  medium  of  the 
things  of  the  spirit.  He  says  you  may  put  a  bird  in 
a  cage,  but  you  cannot  make  him  sing.  He  asks  how 
he  is  to  retire  to  Nature's  bosom  to  be  comforted  when 
the  fifty  feet  by  thirty-six  of  that  bosom  allotted  to 
him  for  his  daily  hour  of  exercise  is  armoured  four 
inches  thick  with  patent  concrete.  But  he  does  sing, 
for  now  and  again  there  comes  a  song  across  the  sea 
to  me.    And  to  listen  to  the  songs  you  would  think 

97  G 


98  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

it  was  I  that  was  the  caged  bird,  not  he.     Never  was 
there  so  blithe  a  captive. 

*'  I  doubt  if  even  St.  Paul  could  give  me  points  on 
rejoicing  in  bonds,"  his  yesterday's  letter  said.  "  I 
have  just  finished  a  corking  article  on  the  minimum 
wage;  and  now  I  meditate  sending  it  down  to  the 
sea  in  a  car  load  of  bottles,  a  la  Shelley.  I  doubt  if 
our  method  of  dissemination  is  any  more  effective 
than  his.  How  do  you  get  on  with  the  autobio- 
graphy? Your  last  sheets  came  yesterday — about 
you  and  me  in  the  hayfield.  I'm  not  a  good  critic 
because  the  whole  thing  is  so  personal  to  both  of  us, 
but  I  have  a  suspicion  it's  readable.  I  wish  you 
weren't  so  set  against  printing.  Why? — I  suppose 
it's  my  artistically  temperamental  immodesty  that 
makes  me  look  at  aU  Hfe  as  incipient  Uterature.  You 
say  you  can't  because  of  the  part  that  Tristram 
Lawrence  played.  But  doesn't  every  one  know  he 
played  it — every  one,  that  is,  who  knows  our  little 
circle?  And  as  for  the  people  who  don't  know — 
who  never  heard  of  us,  or  him — keep  the  manuscript 
five  years  and  change  all  our  names,  and  you'll  find 
it  won't  raise  a  ripple.  Of  course,  I  should  not  want 
you  to  print  anything  that  could  have  a  succes  de 
scandcde ;  but  om*  Uttle  fracas  really  didn't  make 
much  of  a  stir,  except  locally.  I  wish  it  had  made 
more,  for  the  Cause's  sake. — I  don't  want  to  over 
persuade  you,  dear;  but  I  hate  to  think  of  all  that 
good  writing  lying  in  a  trunk.  Who  can  count  on 
the  literary  acimien  of  grandchildren  (great-grand- 
children, I  observe  you  say).  Suppose  they  burned 
it  up  unread  ? — I  should  certainly  turn  in  my  cinerary 
urn.'* 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  99 

Farther  on  he  says — '*  I  am  interested  to  see  how 
you'll  manage  the  '  fair  seed  time  '  of  our  souls.  I 
wouldn't  linger  too  long  over  that  part,  if  I  were  you. 
Grow  us  up  and  set  us  going.  As  I  look  back  it 
seems  as  if  all  of  my  own  life  that  is  worth  anything 
were  packed  into  this  last  fiery  year." 

But  why  should  not  I  be  compiling  statistics  on 
the  minimum  wage?  Better  I  than  Lucian — I  who 
write  only  prose.  This  is  a  very  self-conscious, 
unfruitful  sort  of  thing  to  do — this  family  biography. 
For  whom?  If  I  were  seventy,  and  at  the  end  of 
things,  there  might  be  some  excuse  for  writing 
memoirs.     But  now? 

I  said  something  Uke  that  to  Lucian  the  day  before 
I  sailed;    and — 

"  What  Cyrus  has  done  will  hardly  repeat  itself 
in  our  family  history,"  he  said.  '*  Neither  you  nor 
I  is  likely  to  have  his  opportunity,  or  to  meet  it 
better  than  he  did.  There  is  no  bettering  what  is 
so  well  done.  Some  things  you  and  I  would  not 
forget." 

*'  If  I  lived  to  be  five  hundred,  do  you  think  I 
could  forget  them?  "  I  asked  him. 

But  he  said — "  So  few  of  us  live  to  be  five  hundred, 
how  can  we  tell  ?  And  some  of  us  do  not  even  live  to 
be  seventy.    Write  it  now!  " 

Now — is  June  in  Umbria  after  three  months  of 
rain.  Umbria  verde,  the  peasants  say,  speaking  in 
proverbs,  peasant  fashion;  and  there  are  indeed 
green  patches  among  these  treeless  Apennines;  our 
little  "  hill  of  vines  "  shimmers  like  an  emerald  under 
the  Italian  sun.     But  proverbs  notwithstanding,  the 


100  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

dominant  note  is  amethyst.  From  dawn  and  sun- 
rise till  sunset  and  the  afterglow  I  have  watched  its 
purple  variants  play  upon  these  transparent,  visionary 
mountains. 

Now — is  waiting  time  for  me.  On  the  threshold  of 
our  youth  I  wait — Lucian's  and  Cyrus's  and  mine — 
for  the  passing  of  a  year  and  a  day.  After  that,  no 
more  looking  back,  unless  at  seventy. 


II 

We  were  a  long  time  getting  ready  to  Uve.  Events 
enough,  of  a  sort,  there  were,  in  those  ten  years  and 
more  of  school  and  college:  preliminaries,  finals, 
proms,  vacations,  initiations,  ball  games;  to  all  of 
which  we  gave  a  serious,  undergraduate  attention. 
And  there  were  the  marchese's  imexpected  two  years 
of  mysterious  disappearance  amid  the  mountain 
fastnesses  of  South  America,  and  the  romance  of  his 
unexpected  return  when  my  Cousin  Pauline  had 
almost  made  up  her  mind  to  be  consoled  by  Nicholas. 
And  there  was  the  belated  wedding — not  with 
Nicholas.  And  yet,  as  I  read  over  the  letters  we 
wrote  in  those  years,  I  am  chiefly  impressed  by  the 
way  in  which  our  minds  were  taken  up  with  other 
matters. 

Among  the  letters  of  1894,  when  we  were  aU  three 
at  boarding  school  and  Lucian  was  not  yet  sixteen, 
I  find  these  two  which  are  sufficiently  characteristic. 
I  give  them  in  order.  Cyrus's  must  have  followed 
Lucian's  after  a  week  or  ten  days.  Both  boys  are 
careless  about  dating. 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  loi 

"  Dear  Clara, — Thanks  for  letting  me  see  Uncle 
Lew's  letter  about  the  Pullman  strike.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  keep  it  a  day  or  two  longer?  I  want  to 
copy  some  of  the  things  he  says  about  the  right  to 
organise,  so  as  to  have  them  pat  when  the  fellows 
jump  on  me.  I  read  it  the  other  night  at  a  meeting 
of  our  Frat.  and  it  bowled  them  over  completely,  so 
that  they  stayed  bowled  for  as  much  as  thirty-six 
hours.  We  started  a  subscription  that  night  and 
had  it  all  planned  to  send  so  much  a  week  to  the 
relief  fund.  And  then  somehow  dear  Trissy  got 
wind  of  it  and  sent  for  me  to  his  room  and  indulged 
in  his  sarcastic  pleasantries  about  misplaced  enthu- 
siasm. Now  don't  tell  me  he's  clever,  Clara.  I  know 
he's  clever,  and  I  know  you're  fond  of  him.  Yes, 
you  are !  But  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  be  fond 
of  him,  and  I'm  not.  Neither  am  I  the  only  one 
that's  glad  his  superior  talents  are  to  be  transferred 
to  a  loftier  plane  of  intellectual  activity.  I'd  rather 
he'd  run  a  magazine  than  run  me.  He  wanted  me 
to  call  off  the  subscription.  Me! — And  then  his 
academic  conscience  obliged  him  to  go  to  the  Head 
and  give  the  whole  show  away.  And  the  Head  sent 
for  me  and  explained  that  some  of  the  boys'  fathers 
are  railroad  men,  or  have  stock,  and  all  that;  and 
boys  can't  do  a  thing  of  this  kind  without  their  fathers' 
permission  and  without  consulting  people  who  under- 
stand the  situation  better  than  we  can  who  are  not  in 
it.  And  he  talked  to  the  school  in  chapel,  cooing 
over  us  because  we  meant  well. 

"  Of  course  the  fellows  were  red  hot  at  first  for 
being  meddled  with,  and  a  good  many  of  them  wrote 
off  to  their  fathers.     And  I  wish  you  could  read  the 


102  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

rotten  stuff  their  fathers  wrote.  All  about  the  wicked 
ingratitude  of  the  Pullman  operatives,  and  the  need 
to  guard  the  sacred  right  of  the  individual  to  work  at 
what  wages  he  chooses.  But  it  caught  the  fellows; 
and  besides,  they  couldn't  give  money  if  their  fathers 
said  not.     And  now  we  do  nothing  but  argue. 

"  It  makes  me  wish  more  than  ever  that  I  were 
Uncle  Lew;  free  to  tramp  with  Coxie's  army,  and  to 
picket  with  strikers,  and  to  do  all  those  exciting 
things,  and  to  be  one  of  those  men  who  are  suffering 
for  a  cause.  For  Uncle  Lew  does  suffer,  and  what  a 
good  time  he  has  doing  it ! 

"  There's  a  thing  of  Matthew  Arnold's  I'm  learn- 
ing, for  fun,  that  expresses  my  feeling: — 

"  *  Faster,  faster, 

O  Circe,  Goddess, 
Let  the  wild  thronging  train, 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms, 
Sweep  through  my  soul !  * 

I've  just  got  hold  of  Matthew  Arnold.  You  must 
read  him.  Trissy  had  a  copy  on  his  table  the  other 
night.  I  was  dipping  into  it,  turning  the  pages  while 
he  was  rowing  me  about  the  strike. 

"  '  There's  a  warning  for  you,'  says  Trissy,  really 
solemn  for  once.  '  There's  a  man  who  was  a  poet, 
but  he  turned  away  from  his  high  calling.  He  let 
the  weeds  of  criticism  choke  the  fountain  of  his 
inspiration.' 

'"It  must  have  been  a  pretty  feeble  trickle,'  I  said. 
And  he  took  the  book  and  read  me  some  things.  You 
know  how  well  he  reads,  in  that  half -suppressed  voice 


M 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  103 

of  his.  —  '  The  Forsaken  Merman  '  — '  Progress  '  — 
'  Rugby  Chapel/ 
"Listen:— 

"  '  And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 
Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires. 
Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent. 
Not  without  aim  to  go  round 
In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust. 
Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 
Ah  yes !  some  of  us  strive 
Not  without  action  to  die 
Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 
From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 
Glut  the  devouring  grave ! ' 

But  it  seems  to  me  one  may  be  spent  with  the  crowd 
and  yet  have  an  aim. 

"  Old  Trissy  says  economics  are  alien  to  my 
temperament.  You  bet  they  are!  I  picked  up  a 
book  by  somebody  named  Marshall,  on  the  Head's 
study  table  the  other  day,  and  it  was  almost  the 
only  book  I  ever  struck  that  I  couldn't  read.  But 
then  Trissy  calls  the  Pullman  strike  economics.  I 
call  it  Life;  and  I  told  him  so.  Matthew  Arnold 
says: — 

**  *  Such  a  price 
The  Gods  exact  for  song. 
To  become  what  we  sing.' — 

He  paid  his  price.     I  wonder  what  my  price  will 
be?— The  song?    Lights  out!—  Lucian." 

I  remember  thinking  that  I  would  send  this  letter 
to  Uncle  Lew;   and  then  not  sending  it,  because  of 


104  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

that  little  remark  about  my  own  attitude  toward 
Tristram. 

Cyrus's  letter  I  did  send  him. 

"  Dear  Clara, — I  must  tell  you  about  our  vaude- 
ville show.  Lucian  was  the  best.  I  suppose  I  ought 
not  to  say  it  because  he  is  my  brother,  but  he  is 
always  the  best.  He  recited  a  thing  called  *  The 
Strayed  Reveller,'  by  Matthew  Arnold.  I  wish  you 
had  been  here.  He  had  on  one  of  the  pillow-cases 
from  the  school  guest  chamber,  you  remember  how 
enormous  they  are,  and  girdled  in  with  his  bath- 
robe tassels,  and  over  his  shoulder  that  little  grey 
fox-skin  rug  with  the  red  flannel  scallops  round  the 
edges  that  we  bought  from  the  taxidermatologist  up 
home  in  our  valley,  and  one  of  the  pink  silk  union 
suits  mother  bought  him  the  last  time  we  were  in 
Geneva  and  he  never  wears.  And  he  had  a  green 
wreath  in  his  hair,  and  raspbeny  shrub  in  a  Tiffany 
vase  from  the  reception-room  mantelpiece.  The 
fellows  all  yelled  when  they  saw  him,  they  thought  he 
was  going  to  be  funny.  But  he  had  them  hypnotised 
all  right,  in  about  two  minutes.  And  when  it 
was  over  the  housekeeper  never  said  a  word  about 
the  pillow-case.  All  she  said  was,  *  Do  not  attempt 
to  wash  the  Tiffany  vase,  Lucian,  I  will  do  that.* 
And  the  Head  shook  hands  with  him  and  beamed 
Uke  the  sun. 

"  I  would  have  liked  to  be  in  the  vaudeville  show, 
but  the  boys  are  down  on  me  just  now  because  I 
didn't  subscribe  anything  to  our  spring  games  nor 
to  the  set  of  encyclopaedias  we — I  mean  they — are 
giving  to  old  Trissy  because  he  is  leaving  to  be  an 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  105 

editor.  You  see,  I  have  sent  all  my  allowance  to  the 
Pullman  Strikers*  Relief  Fund.  I  felt  that  they 
needed  it  more  than  Trissy  because  he  can  always 
go  to  a  public  Ubrary  if  he  wants  to  consult  an 
encyclopaedia.  But  the  boys  think  I  am  a  skunk 
because  Trissy  is  a  friend  of  mother's  and  has  always 
taken  a  particular  interest  in  Lucian  and  me.  But 
they  are  madder  about  the  athletics.  I  am  sorry 
they  are  mad;  but  I  seemed  to  have  to  send  the 
money.  I  sent  it  anomalously,  from  '  A  Sym- 
pathiser,' because  I  was  afraid  if  I  signed  my  name 
Mr.  Warner  and  those  other  old  gentlemen  that  take 
care  of  grandfather's  money  for  us  might  take  it 
away  from  the  strikers  because  I  am  a  minor.  They 
can't  now. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is  that  Lucian  has  given  one  boy 
a  black  eye  about  it,  and  the  boy  tells  people — 
masters,  I  mean, — that  he  ran  into  his  brass  bed- 
post in  the  dark.  But  they  might  know,  if  they 
stopped  to  think,  that  if  he  ran  into  the  bed-post  it 
would  hit  him  in  the  stomach. 

"  It  worries  me  a  good  deal  to  be  responsible  for 
other  people's  sins.  Sometimes  at  night  it  seems  as 
if  I  could  not  bear  it.  But  if  I  went  and  told,  I 
should  be  even  more  of  a  skunk  than  I  am  now. 
Life  is  so  complicated.  I  think  a  hermit's  life  is 
the  safest,  because  he  lives  by  himself  and  cannot 
tempt  other  people  to  lie  and  fight. 

"  I  am  glad  the  vacation  is  so  near. — Your  aff. 

"Cyrus." 


io6  THE  CHILDREN^  OF  LIGHT 

III 

Helen  and  I  saw  little  of  each  other  while  we  were 
preparing  for  college.  She  entered  two  years  ahead 
of  me,  from  a  high  school;  and  in  the  summer  her 
practical  sister  secured  some  sort  of  paying  employ- 
ment for  her,  and  we  were  always  in  Europe.  The 
summer  before  she  entered  college  I  pleaded  with  her 
to  come  with  us,  but  she  would  not.  She  waited  on 
table  at  a  fashionable  hotel  in  the  White  Mountains 
instead.  My  Cousin  Pauhne  was  horrified,  but  I 
remember  how  Lucian  and  Cyrus  and  I,  walking 
with  the  marchese  over  the  Col  du  Geant  from 
Courmayeur  to  Chamonix,  clanked  our  chains  and 
railed  at  the  cruel  fate  that  denied  us  the  romantic 
excitement  of  Helen's  life. 

Helen  was  never  a  good  correspondent,  but  during 
the  two  years  before  I  joined  her  at  college  she  wrote 
once  a  week,  if  only  a  Une.  The  frequency  of  these 
letters  at  first  dehghted,  then  puzzled,  then  dis- 
tressed me,  and  at  last  I  wrote  her  some  sort  of 
blundering  protest,  which  brought  me  by  return 
mail  this  reply,  the  nearest  to  a  love-letter  I  ever  had 
from  Helen: — 

"  How  silly  you  are,  Clara! — Duty! — What  duty? 
— Obligation  to  write  you? — If  I  thought  so,  do  you 
think  I  would?  There  is  an  obUgation  —  to  pay 
back  my  college  bills  after  I've  swallowed  the  college 
education;  and  I  shall.  But  what  has  that  to  do 
with  my  writing  letters  to  my  dearest  friend?  Yes; 
my  Dearest  Friend.  Let  us  write  it  in  large  capitals. 
Why  can't  you  beheve  it?     I'm  not  so  modest  as 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  107 

not  to  know  I'm  not  your  dearest  friend.  (Dear  me, 
isn't  there  a  not  too  many  there?)  And  do  you 
think  it  is  only  hard  Hnes  for  you  that  you  are  not  in 
college  now  ?  Perhaps  I  am  not  very  fond  of  writing 
letters;  I  don't  write  as  easily  as  you  do.  I  keep 
all  your  letters,  Clara.  There! — now  do  you  believe 
you  are?  And  I  only  keep  the  letters  of  one  other 
person,  and  they  are  not  from  a  girl,  and  I  haven't 
but  four  of  them  so  far,  anyway. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  write  you  once 
a  week,  I  won't. — But  I  shall  miss  it. — ^With  love 
always,  Helen." 

The  next  was  on  a  different  theme  and  in  a 
different  vein. 

"  Dear  Clara, — How  exasperating  you  can  be ! 
Of  course  I  shall  not  let  you  subscribe  to  the  College 
Settlements  Association  under  my  name.  If  I  can't 
write  you  about  associations  and  dues  and  things 
without  your  always  wanting  to  interfere,  I  shan't 
tell  you  anything;  that's  all.  If  you  want  to  sub- 
scribe to  it  you  can  form  a  sub-chapter  in  your  school. 
I  shall  pay  my  own  subscription,  thank  you,  and 
supply  myself  with  any  other  luxuries  I  choose,  by 
putting  the  braid  on  other  girls'  skirts  and  shampooing 
their  hair. 

*'  If  you  have  a  chance,  get  them  to  take  you  in 
to  see  the  settlement  house.  I  spent  last  Sunday 
there.  If  I  can  save  up  enough  I  may  go  there  for 
the  spring  vacation.  Now,  Clara  Emery,  if  you  offer 
to  pay,  or  lend  me,  my  board  for  the  spring  vacation, 
because  you  would  like  to  be  at  the  settlement  then. 


io8  THE  CHILDREN^  OF  LIGHT 

and  can't,   I  won't  write  you  another  letter  this 
semester. 

"  Why  in  the  world  should  you  suppose  I  am  keep- 
ing Lucian's  letters?  In  the  first  place,  he  never 
writes  me;  and  in  the  second  place,  if  he  did  I  should 
send  his  letters  to  you  to  keep.  I  do  hear  from  Cyrus 
once  in  a  long  while,  when  he  wants  to  consult  me 
about  a  birthday  present  for  you,  or  something  of 
that  kind.  I  do  think  you  might  write  oftener  to 
C5niis,  Clara. — Yours,  Helen." 

IV 

I  have  been  turning  over  Lucian's  early  manu- 
script poems  this  morning.  The  best  of  them  are  in 
the  Uttle  volume  that  came  out  after  he  left  college, 
but  some  that  I  am  fondest  of  he  rejected  for  one 
reason  or  another.  I  am  not  the  only  one  in  the 
family  who  has  literary  reserves.  The  little  lauds 
of  our  Franciscan  summer  are  here — to  Sister  Cassock 
and  the  trees.  I  said  them  just  now,  on  the  loggia, 
looking  off  to  the  shadowy  ridge  of  La  Vema,  the 
mountain  of  the  Stigmata,  the  only  tree-crowned 
sununit  in  all  our  circle  of  bare,  sunbright  Apennines. 

And  among  these  boyish  attempts  at  verse-making 
I  have  found  also  a  letter  that  I  had  mislaid — the 
one  he  wrote  me  in  the  winter  before  he  went  to 
college — all  about  his  epic.  It  was  written  during  the 
mid-year  examinations,  although  they  apparently 
were  not  weighing  upon  his  mind. 

"  Dear  Clara, — I  have  not  written  you  for  some 
time  because  I  have  been  busy  on  an  epic  I  am 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  109 

writing.  It  is  my  first  really  serious  attempt  at 
blank  verse  and  I  am  rather  absorbed.  What  do  you 
think  of  this  for  a  beginning  ? 

"  *  The  century  is  going  to  its  death. 

The  feast  is  over  and  the  guests  are  sped, 
Or  sitting  heavily  about  the  board. 
Dull-eyed  and  moody,  loth  to  leave  their  cates. 
Though  appetite  be  sickened  to  a  stare. 

"  '  To  stand  upon  the  feast-hall's  threshold  stone. 
And  keen  with  hunger,  hope,  and  youth,  and  life, 
Be  bidden  to  a  banquet  that  is  ended, — 
What  does  it  mean  ? ' — 

Do  you  catch  the  idea  ?  It  is  to  be  in  the  nature  of 
a  dirge — a  reviewing  of  the  hfe  of  the  century  that  is 
going  out  and  a  prophecy  of  what  is  to  come.  Of 
course,  we  have  several  years  to  run  yet,  but  by  the 
time  I  finish — with  all  the  interruptions  I  shall  have 
from  getting  settled  at  college  and  used  to  the  new 
routine — there  ought  to  be  just  about  time  to  see  it 
through  the  press  before  we  ring  in  1900.  And  if  I 
can  get  it  out  before  1900,  it  will  have  all  the  more 
time  to  make  its  way. 

"  I  plan  for  about  ten  thousand  lines.  What  do 
you  think  of  '  A  Prophet  in  the  Wilderness '  for  a 
title?  Here's  another  bit;  of  course  you  know  most 
of  this  is  only  trial  stuff,  but  there's  a  line  here  and 
there  that  I  mean  to  keep : — 

"  *  O  Son  of  Time!     O  prostrate  century 
So  soon  to  die,  so  soon  to  be  at  rest 
Within  the  dim,  still  crypt  of  Memory 
Where,  side  by  side,  thy  hoary  brothers  sleep ! ' 

Do  you  prefer  memory  without  the  capital  letter? 
There  is  still  a  monotony  about  the  way  my  emphasis 


no  THE  CHILDREN.  OF  LIGHT 

falls,  but  I  shall  work  out  of  that  when  I  get  into  the 
swing  of  the  verse.  There  is  to  be  one  section  about 
the  nineteenth-century  poets  and  thinkers.  Guess 
which  one  this  is: — 

" — '  that  other  youth 
Whose  words  were  very  stars  he  flung  athwart 
The  cumulative  darkness  of  your  thought  ?  ' 

And  then  there  is  going  to  be  a  vision  of  a  golden 
image — I  haven't  worked  it  out  yet — and  the  immi- 
grant hordes  pouring  up  over  the  edge  of  the  world, 
and  the  priests  of  the  image  stripping  them  of  all  their 
little  wealth,  and  grinding  them  to  labour,  and  hoard- 
ing the  gold  for  the  image;  and  everybody  being 
dashed  to  foam  and  death,  hke  an  angry  sea  about 
the  pedestal  of  the  image.  I  know  it's  confused  now, 
but  you'll  see  what  I  mean.  And  then  after  the 
vision  the  prophet  turns  and  denounces  his  hearers : — 

"  '  How  cautious  and  how  careful  for  God's  world, 
His  world.  He  guard eth,  are  we  grown  of  late ! 
"  Not  war!  "  ye  whimper.     "  War ?  to  lay  in  waste 
Our  golden  wheat-fields,  steep  our  land  in  blood. 
Our  peaceful  land  ?     Bring  famine  on  the  earth  ? 
The  world  is  grown  too  wise  to  go  to  war," 

**  *  Bring  famine  on  the  land  ? — What  men  are  these 
That  sit  within  our  gates  and  beg  for  bread  ? 
Lay  waste  our  golden  wheat-fields  ? — Aye,  lay  waste 
And  trample  them.     Of  what  do  these  avail 
If  they  that  sow  the  seed  must  reap  to  starve  ? 

"  '  Unlock  your  coffers!     Cast  them  out  of  doors. 
And  cease  this  whining,  soft  benevolence. 
Spit  out  the  yellow  poison  from  your  souls ! ' 

I'm  fond  of  that  last  line.     If  I  didn't  have  those 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  iii 

wretched  finals  to  think  of  in  June  I  could  do  a  lot 
this  next  term.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  take  a  whack  at  Math,  before  I  go  to  bed; 
aU  the  other  fellows  are  cramming  for  to-morrow; 
that's  why  I  haven't  been  interrupted  in  this  letter." 

Some  seven  hundred  lines  of  that  visionary  ten 
thousand  were  written.  "  'Prentice  work,"  Lucian 
said,  when  he  came  to  choose  the  poems  for  his  book. 
And  I  acquiesced.  But  before  I  knew  what  he  was 
about  he  had  torn  the  manuscript  and  thrust  it  on 
the  fire. 

Looked  at  from  the  point  of  view  of  literature,  I 
suppose  it  was  no  great  loss;  but  I  am  glad  I  have 
found  the  letter  with  these  fragments — now  that  he 
is  trying  to  convert  the  world  by  statistics  of  child 
labour  and  the  minimum  wage. 


In  the  spring  of  our  freshman  year,  Lucian's  and 
mine,  war  was  declared  with  Spain;  and  it  was  in 
February  or  March — no,  perhaps  April — when  the 
country  was  in  a  ferment  and  nothing  was  as  yet 
officially  settled,  that  Cyrus  won  the  school  debate. 
I  remember  how  Helen  pulled  wires  to  try  to  get 
permission  for  her  and  me  to  go  to  it.  But  we  should 
have  had  to  cut  three  classes  and  spend  the  night  in 
town,  and  there  was  a  difficulty  about  a  chaperone. 
We  had  to  content  ourselves  with  Lucian's  telegram 
and  the  letter  that  followed  in  a  day  or  two. 

"Isn't  it  great  about  Cyrus?"  he  wrote.  "I 
never  was  so  proud  of  anything  in  my  life.    It  was 


112  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

a  shame  you  couldn't  be  there.  He  was  so  dis- 
appointed. But  he  made  that  audience  sit  up.  They 
never  have  half  appreciated  Cyrus  at  the  school 
before.  And  the  funny  part  of  it  was  the  coach's 
attitude  beforehand.  I  ran  down  on  the  afternoon 
train  and  the  coach  was  on  it,  and  I  introduced 
myself.  I  could  see  by  the  way  he  wriggled  round 
that  he  hadn't  a  ghost  of  an  idea  Cyrus  could  do 
anything.  '  You  see,  Mr.  Emery,'  he  said,  *  he's 
on  the  weak  side  of  the  argument  anyway; — we  are 
going  to  war  with  Spain,  and  we  ought  to  go  to  war 
with  Spain.'  —  '  I'm  not  so  sure,'  said  I.  —  *  Well, 
you're  the  first  college  man  I've  met  that  doesn't 
think  so,'  he  repHed.  And  then  he  went  on  to  say 
a  good  many  nice  things  about  the  way  Cyrus  had 
worked  up  his  case,  but  I  knew  I  had  got  at  the  gist 
of  the  matter  when  he  said — '  If  only  your  brother 
might  be  persuaded  to  put  a  little  more  animation 
into  his  deUvery,  but  he  has  an  aversion  to  letting 
out  his  voice.  And  when  you're  on  the  unpopular 
side  of  a  Hve  issue  like  this,  oratorical  bluff  is  your 
only  chance.  The  boy  that's  with  him  appreciates 
that,  and  fortunately  has  some  dramatic  ability.  But 
your  brother  is  very  obstinate.' 

"  Nevertheless,  I  wasn't  wholly  cast  down.  I 
knew  my  Uttle  brother.  I  will  say,  however,  that  I 
didn't  think  he  could  win;  for  it  is  a  live  issue,  and 
almost  every  one  is  predisposed  in  favour  of  war.  I 
didn't  think  he'd  fetch  them  even  if  he  did,  personally, 
do  well.     But  he  did  fetch  them ! 

"  He  was  at  the  station  to  meet  me,  his  most  dry 
and  taciturn.  He  had  the  outHne  of  his  argument  in 
his  pocket  and  I  read  it  as  we  walked  up.     'Of  course, 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  113 

it  convinces  me/  I  said,  when  I  gave  it  back  to  him, 
*  but  then  I'm  on  your  side/ 

"  '  And  it's  the  right  side,  whether  we  lose  or  win — 
that's  the  only  thing  that  matters,*  he  answered; 
and  then,  looking  straight  ahead,  '  But  I  shall  try  to 
make  them  see  it  the  way  I  do/ 

"  There  was  quite  a  choice  lot  of  school  alumni  out 
to  hear  the  debate.  You  know,  we  are  a  choice  lot 
any  way.  I  was  the  baby  of  the  bunch,  but  I  hob- 
nobbed with  a  judge  of  the  supreme  court  and  a 
member  of  the  cabinet  and  a  bishop,  all  of  them  old 
boys  and  old  debating  club  members.  Even  judges 
of  the  supreme  court  go  out  of  the  way  to  be  nice  to 
grandfather's  grandsons. 

**  The  affirmative  opened  well — ^good  husky  youths 
they  were  on  that  side,  with  cheerful  aggressive 
voices,  both  of  them ;  and  the  leader  was  a  handsome 
fellow  besides.  Cyrus's  partner  followed  the  first 
affirmative,  a  cocky  little  chap,  making  the  most  of 
how  improper,  from  a  Christian,  as  well  as  from  a 
diplomatic  point  of  view  it  would  be  for  us  to  lay 
ourselves  open  to  the  charge  of  revenging  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Maine — and  not  believing  one  word  of  his 
own  argument.  Then  more  affirmative — then  Cyrus. 
I  give  you  my  word,  I  felt  quite  faint  for  a  minute, 
and  my  forehead  went  cold  and  clammy.  And  there 
he  stood,  with  his  cowHck  straying  slantwise  down 
his  forehead.  You  never  saw  anything  so  lean  and 
gawky  and  lovable  in  your  life.  He  stood  quite 
still,  with  his  chin  a  little  dropped,  and  those  calm, 
attentive  eyes  of  his  going  from  face  to  face — that 
personal,  friendly,  simple  way  he  has  when  he 
chooses.    People  settled  into  their  chairs,  and  the 


114  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

whole  place  became  abnormally  still:  it  was  queer 
the  way  that  quiet  glance  affected  them.  And  then 
— you  know  how  he  used  to  preach  to  the  birds — it 
was  something  like  that.  Of  course,  he  wasn't  talk- 
ing in  his  ordinary  voice,  he  couldn't  have  been,  but 
the  effect  was  of  his  ordinary  voice,  not  lifted  an 
atom. — He  will  send  you  his  outline.  He  had  the 
economic  side  of  it  well  worked  out — his  great  tactic 
was  playing  into  the  other  side's  hands — conceding 
and  conceding — painting  the  commercial  prosperity 
that  followed  a  successful  war  (and  of  course  this 
would  be  successful),  and  then  suddenly  turning  and 
showing  how  it  was  a  false  prosperity.  Painting  the 
humanitarian  impulses  of  the  people  and  commending 
them — and  then  showing  how  the  people  were  a  set 
of  sheep  and  fools  at  the  mercy  of  high  finance  and 
politics  and  jingoism.  I  tell  myself  that  of  course  it 
was  only  school-boy  logic  and  must  have  been  feeble, 
but  somehow  it  didn't  seem  to  be  feeble  at  the  time. 
But  I  think  he  was  even  better  when  it  came  to  the 
rebuttal.  He  had  sat  there  during  those  first  speeches, 
and  during  the  rather  aimless  reply  to  his  own, 
making  notes ;  and  without  cracking  a  smile  he  pricked 
the  bombast  of  the  other  side,  and  the  audience 
shouted  again  and  again.  And  then  he  straightened 
up  and  held  out  his  two  hands,  palm  up,  and  began 
to  talk  Peace — and  Tolstoy — and  the  Doukhobors — 
and  aU  the  ladies  wept.    And  then  he  sat  down. 

"  The  boys  simply  went  wild.  They  yelled  for 
fifteen  minutes — the  school  yell  and  then  '  Emery !  ' 
There  was  no  question  about  which  side  had  won.  I 
was  sitting  next  the  judge  of  the  supreme  court  and 
he  turned  to  me  and  said,  *  How  old  is  that  boy  ? ' 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  115 

and  when  I  told  him  not  quite  seventeen,  he  said, 
'  Well,  sir;  it  is  a  very  remarkable  performance;  a 
very  remarkable  performance  indeed.  He  has  a 
future  before  him.' 

"  I  couldn't  get  near  Cyrus  for  another  hour,  the 
Head  had  him  in  tow  and  was  introducing  him  to  the 
big  bugs.  I  slept  on  the  sofa  in  his  study,  and  after 
we  had  turned  the  fellows  out  and  were  getting  ready 
for  bed  I  said  something  about  the  success.  He  came 
and  stood  close  before  me  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  mine, 
and  said,  '  Do  you  really  think  I  changed  any  of 
their  minds — or  hearts? — because  I  don't.  That 
would  be  success — nothing  else.'  I  said,  '  You're 
tired  now,  Cyrus — that's  why.'  '  Oh,  no,  it's  not 
why,'  he  answered,  and  began  to  talk  of  something 
else.  After  the  lights  were  out  he  remarked  from 
the  bedroom, '  It  was  very  pleasant  when  I  held  them 
all  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand.' 

*' Write  him,  Clara;  and  say  all  you  can  to  cheer 
him.  LuciAN." 

"  P.S. — Who  do  you  think  has  turned  up? — 
Cuthbert.  I  always  feel  so  apologetic  when  I  see  him 
wearing  my  old  clothes  that  I  never  can  refuse  him 
anything.  Not  that  he  asks,  but  his  whole  attitude 
says  —  *  Stand  and  deliver.'  Do  you  let  him  call 
you  Clara  ?  Not  that  he  means  to  be  impudent,  but 
he  irritates  me." 

My  letter  must  have  pleased  Cyrus — although  I 
cannot  now  remember  what  I  said — for  he  answered 
quite  exuberantly,  for  him. 

*'  Oh,  Clara!  did  it  really  mean  so  much  to  you? 
Thank  you !    I  like  your  phrase  '  bearing  witness/ 


ii6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

I  have  been  rather  a  blue  pig  since  it  was  over;  one 
does  so  want  to  persuade  people  to  do  differently. 
I  suppose  I  am  conceited  and  that  is  why  it  makes 
me  grouchy  not  to  get  results.  I  think  I  was  more 
disappointed  than  I  ever  have  been  about  anything, 
not  to  have  you  there. 

"  There  was  an  English  priest  visiting  the  school 
a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  and  he  preached  on  detach- 
ment, and  now  every  other  word  with  the  fellows  is, 
'  Detach  yourself,  dear  boy.'  But  seriously,  it  seems 
to  me  the  difficulty  is  to  know  whether  you  are 
detached  or  just  indifferent.  I  was  feeling  quite 
spiritually  proud  about  being  detached  until  I  found 
you  couldn't  come  to  the  debate. 

"  Cuthbert  is  around.  He  went  to  see  Lucian  at 
college,  and  then  he  came  here,  and  I  got  permission 
to  keep  him  over  Sunday.  He  wanted  to  see  what 
Lucian  and  I  thought  of  the  chances  of  his  working 
his  way  through  college.  He  thinks  he  can  be  ready 
by  next  autumn,  when  I  enter.  He  would  have  been 
ready  before  Lucian,  he  says,  if  he  hadn't  missed  so 
many  pieces  of  school  terms  helping  on  the  farm. 
But  now  his  next  brother  is  old  enough  to  take  his 
place. 

"  I  am  urging  him  to  come.  He  wants  to  so  much. 
It  makes  me  uneasy  to  be  going  as  a  matter  of  course, 
when  nothing  in  Hfe  is  a  matter  of  course  with  him — 
except  drudgery.  It  would  be  dreadful  to  have  to 
look  at  the  world  as  if  it  were  your  enemy,  to  be  got 
ahead  of,  to  be  beaten,  to  be  downed — the  way  he 
does. 

"  Do  write  again  soon.  Now  that  Lucian  isn't 
here  I  miss  your  letters.    Or,   I   tell  you  what — 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  117 

remind  him  to  send  me  your  letters  sometimes,  and 
then  they  will  do  for  two,  the  way  they  used.  I  know 
how  busy  you  must  be. — Love  from  Cyrus." 

*'  I  bet  you  he  pays  that  boy's  way  through  college," 
said  Helen,  when  I  read  her  this  letter. 

"Well,  why  not?"  said  L 

Helen  flushed  suddenly.  "Of  course,  why  not? 
That  was  a  nasty  speech  of  mine  considering,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Oh,  Helen!  "I  protested. 

"  But  then  there  is  no  more  reason  why  Cuthbert 
Sylvester  should  look  on  the  world  as  an  enemy,  to 
be  downed,  than  that  I  should.  But  I  don't. — You 
may  think  I  do,  Clara;  but  I  don't — really." 

"  Think  you  do!  "  I  cried. 

"  I  think  the  world's  an  ugly  place,  a  hard,  cruel, 
selfish  place.  But  I  don't  hate  the  world  at  all,  nor 
want  to  beat  it;  I'm  sorry  for  it.  I'm  not  sorry  for 
myself.  How  can  I  be  when  I  have  so  much — 
college — and  you — there,  keep  off! — But  Cuthbert 
is  sorry  for  himself. — And  I  am  a  piece  of  the  world's 
ugliness  when  I  judge  him  and  say  so.  But  I  do  say 
so.     I  have  no  use  for  Cuthbert." 

"  Well,"  I  agreed  reluctantly.  "  As  Lucian  would 
say,  he  is  not  exactly  simpatico,  but  then " 

"  He  finds  you  very  simpatica,"  she  jeered 
mysteriously. 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Oh,  Cuthbert  has  his  own  little  air  castles." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"  And  so  you  blush  for  your  own  stupidity?  " 


ii8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


VI 

I  saw  the  boys  fairly  often  when  we  were  in  college. 
One  or  the  other  came  out  every  week,  and  after 
Helen  was  graduated  I  used  to  spend  a  good  many 
Sundays  at  the  settlement  with  her,  and  Cyrus  was 
always  there  on  Saturday  nights  with  his  Italian 
boys.  Lucian's  settlement  class  in  the  modem  poets 
met  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  but  oftener  than 
not  he  dropped  in  on  a  Sunday  evening  if  I  was 
there. 

Those  days  of  our  first  contact  with  the  realities  of 
want,  and  industrial  suffering,  were  full  of  excite- 
ment and  anguish  for  all  of  us.  We  took  them  hard. 
Even  to  me,  who  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  poor, 
the  sordid,  malodorous,  tenement  house  glut  of  filthy 
deprivation  was  then,  and  has  never  ceased  to  be, 
an  unbearable  nightmare  of  horror.  The  co-operative 
poverty  of  New  Hope  was  a  clean  thing,  well  venti- 
lated and  voluntary,  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same 
breath  with  the  ugly  apathy,  the  stertorous  coma, 
of  this  other  manifestation.  I  remember  Lucian's 
saying  desperately,  "  Would  Shelley  have  gone  on 
singing,  do  you  think,  if  he  had  run  up  against  this 
stench?  It  chokes  me.  And  what's  worse,  they 
wouldn't  hear  me  if  I  did  sing;  nothing  vibrates  in 
this  dead  atmosphere." 

I  was  trying  to  follow  Ruskin.  Trying  to  clothe 
and  feed  and  rightly  please  people;  having  my  clothes 
made  by  needy  seamstresses  who  could  not  cut  and 
fit;  wearing  union  label  shoes  that  blistered  my  feet; 
experimenting  in  self-denials  in  order  to  probe  the 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  119 

limits  of  my  efficiency  and  formulate  a  definition  of 
luxury.  But  chiefly  was  I  engaged  in  rebelling 
against  our  trustees,  who  would  not  let  me  endow 
the  settlement,  who  would  not  let  me  adopt  three 
Italian  orphans,  who  would  not  let  me  set  up  an  Irish 
widow  in  the  grocery  business,  who  would  not  let  me 
build  and  finance  a  vacation  house  for  working  girls 
by  the  sea.  There  were  other  things,  I  know,  that 
they  would  not  let  me  do,  but  I  have  forgotten  what 
they  were.  They  did  consent  to  my  endowing  a 
bed  in  the  children's  hospital,  but  only  one  bed. 

Cyrus  turned  to  the  New  Testament.  His  bank 
account  was  always  over-drawn. 

Cuthbert,  too,  I  saw;  not  at  the  settlement,  how- 
ever. I  think  he  suspected  patronage  there;  and 
later  he  openly  scorned  all  philanthropic  endeavour. 
But  he  used  to  come  out  to  college  with  rigid  regu- 
larity, and  sit  on  a  sofa  opposite  me  in  awkward 
silence  for  an  hour,  between  trains. 

One  memorable  evening  he  said,  "  Do  you  re- 
member that  first  day,  how  you  said  everybody  ought 
to  be  as  rich  as  everybody  else?  ** 

I  nodded. 

"  Well,  I'm  taking  a  course  on  Socialism  this 
semester.  Maybe  they  ought.  The  fellow  that's 
giving  the  course  don't  think  so,  though." 

When  I  told  Helen,  to  my  disgust  she  said:  "  He's 
falling  in  love  with  you." 

It  is  no  use  contradicting  Helen. 

Letter-writing  was  more  or  less  fitful,  yet  my 
packet  of  college  letters  is  by  no  means  small,  and 
choosing  is  not  easy.  If  among  those  that  follow 
Lucian's  predominate,  that  is  because  I  had  more  of 


120  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

his  to  choose  from.     I  seem,  somehow,  to  have  saved 
more  of  Lucian's. 

The  order  of  these  letters  is  a  Httle  uncertain,  as 
many  of  them  are  dated  only  by  the  day  of  the  week, 
and  in  my  college  days  I  had  the  habit,  disconcert- 
ing to  the  biographer,  of  destroying  envelopes,  to 
economise  space. 

"Clara! — Have  you  seen  the  current  Atlantic — 
'  An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation?  '  Oh,  the  joy  of 
being  the  fellow  that  wrote  it! — Moody's  his  name. 
The  real  thing,  he  is !  Do  you  suppose  he'd  fall  down 
in  a  fit  if  I  wrote  and  told  him  so  ?  It  seems  as  if  I 
must;  and  yet  I  suppose  I  shan't;  one  never  does. 
I  want  to  hang  round  his  neck.  I  want  to  weep  tears 
of  joy  on  his  coat  coUar.  Oh,  Clara,  is  there  really 
going  to  be  a  poet  in  America  ?  If  this  ill  wind  of  a 
war  should  blow  us  a  poet! — Yours,  Lucian." 

"  Dear  Clara, — Have  you  seen  old  Trissy  ?  He 
said  he  was  going  up  to  call.  He's  on  for  some  sort  of 
editorial  spree.  He  looked  me  up  and  got  me  to 
show  him  what  I  was  doing,  and  just  to  get  a  rise 
out  of  him  I  made  him  think  that  my  heart  was  bound 
up  in  that  dramatic  plot  I'm  doing  for  EngUsh  43; 
you  know — the  one  where  the  young  woollen  manu- 
facturer goes  to  the  Spanish  war  as  a  substitute  for 
his  Russian- J ew-naturahsed  foreman;  and  the  Irish 
girl  they  both  love  marries  the  Russian  Jew  to 
preserve  class  consciousness;  and  the  naturaUsed 
Spaniard,  who  is  the  night  watchman  of  the  mills,  and 
shielded  by  the  others  because  he's  a  deserter  from 
the  war  and  doesn't  want  to  fight  against  his  own 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  121 

countrymen,  gets  drunk  in  honour  of  a  Spanish 
victory  and  sets  fire  to  the  mills,  and  they  all  kill  each 
other  with  rocks — You  know. 

'*  I  explained  to  Trissy  solemnly  how  the  possi- 
bihty  of  the  play's  being  accepted  by  a  manager 
would  all  depend  upon  Spain's  winning  out;  other- 
wise the  question  was  purely  academic.  And  Trissy 
went  for  me  tooth  and  nail,  and  then  poured  salt  into 
my  wounds.  He  says  I  am  stultifying  my  genius. 
Mark  you,  /  don't  say  genius  ;  Trissy  says  it. 

"  The  only  thing  he  had  any  use  for  was  that  little 
15^10  I  wrote  for  your  last  birthday.  Virginal,  he 
called  it.  He  went  off  with  it  in  his  pocket,  and  to- 
day I  got  a  cheque  for  it.    Ten  dollars !     First  fruits ! 

"  Of  course,  I  know  that  all  I've  got  to  do  is  to 
set  to  work  and  write  erotic  verse,  and  mother,  and 
the  marchese,  and  Trissy,  and  everybody,  will  im- 
mediately sigh  content  and  think  I  am  fulfilling  my 
destiny.  Shall  you  think  I  am  fulfilling  my  destiny, 
Clara?  Wouldn't  it  make  you  proud  to  have  me 
write  erotic  verse  to  you  ?  Say  the  word !  Or  maybe 
you'd  rather  have  it  from  Trissy — ^in  quantitative 
metres? — Does  Trissy  ever?  How  many  things  are 
you  conceaHng  from  me,  Clara?  Remember,  I  told 
you  all  about  that  pretty  Irish  girl  in  my  poetry 
class  at  the  settlement.  Play  fair! — She's  thrown 
me  over,  did  you  know? — For  a  man  that  deals  in 
jimk.  There  was  my  opportunity  to  write  erotic 
verse,  and  I  missed  it.  Too  late,  too  late !  Will  you 
come  with  me  to  choose  her  wedding  gift  ? 

"  I  told  Trissy  I  meant  to  sing  the  eight-hour  day 
and  the  minimum  wage  in  madrigals. — Thine, 

"  LuciAN." 


122  THE  CHILDREN^  OF  LIGHT 

"  Clara  dear, — Don't  you  want  to  say  a  word  in 
season  to  Cyrus?  He  may  listen  to  you.  His 
latest  is  vegetarianism,  and  I  know  he  isn't  getting 
enough  to  eat.  Why  stop  at  meat?  Why  isn't  it 
just  as  murderous  to  masticate  the  sensitive  little 
carrot  ? 

"  And  don't  you  want  to  learn  to  knit,  and  make 
him  a  couple  of  neckties?  He  wouldn't  give  those 
away ;  and  the  ones  he's  wearing  are  the  weediest.  If 
a  fellow  chooses  to  be  a  Sociahst  and  go  without  a 
necktie,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  may  come  to  it 
myself,  yet.  But  if  he's  going  to  wear  a  necktie,  let 
it  he  a  necktie  and  not  a  shoestring. 

"  He  never  has  any  money  to  buy  things.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  he  does  with  it.  But,  yes — 
I  suppose  I  do. — Distractedly,  Lucian." 

"  Dear  Clara, — Cyrus  brought  me  your  letter  to 
read.  How  well  you  put  it!  Yes;  the  whole 
universe  is  our  sacrament — and  we  in  our  turn  are 
its  sacrament.  The  little  vegetable  yields  up  its  life 
to  give  me  Ufe; — ^but  I  in  my  turn  am  Ufe-giving  to 
the  vegetable.  I  feed  upon  star-dust,  to  live;  and  I 
give  my  body  in  return  to  kindle  the  light  of  the  stars. 
Those  old  pagans  had  hit  upon  a  great  mystery  when 
they  said:  *  He  that  eateth  the  god,  he  becometh 
the  god.'  I  suppose  you  couldn't  go  quite  that  far, 
being  subject,  by  your  own  will,  to  the  theological 
limitations  of  the  Church  of  England.  But  I  can  go 
as  far  as  I  hke,  being  rehgiously  untrammelled,  to 
Cyrus's  great  perturbation. 

"  But  the  important  result  at  present  is  that  you 
have,  I  think,  overcome  his  difficulty  about  eating 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  123 

meat.  He  still  has  a  qualm;  he  is  afraid  he  may  be 
giving  up  his  vegetarian  principles  because  he  likes  to 
do  what  you  ask  him  to.  He's  afraid  he's  too  fond  of 
you  to  be  able  to  judge  the  question  on  its  own  merits. 
But  he'll  come  round.  Fortunately  he  has  a  mind. 
If  he  were  all  conscience  what  a  time  we  should  have 
with  him. 

*'  I  was  so  full  of  your  sacramental  theory  that  I 
expounded  it  to  Cuthbert  just  now  when  he  came  in 
to  borrow  Marx's  Capitalr—diVid.  I  don't  usually  open 
up  my  soul  to  Cuthbert. 

"  Do  you  know — it  struck  him  as  cannibalistic — 
grisly! — Aren't  people  queer?  That's  because  he's 
such  a  rank  materialist  I  suppose.  He  doesn't  seem 
to  me  to  find  spirit  in  anything.  He's  always  balanc- 
ing, and  over-balancing — material  poverty  against 
material  riches.  He  finds  in  your  theory  an  example 
of  merciless  competition — the  big  beasts  eating  up 
the  little  beasts.  To  me,  it  seems  to  signify  co- 
operation— giving  one's  Hfe — and  all  that  Hfe  sym- 
bolises through  flesh  and  blood — for  the  sake  of  the 
life  of  the  world. 

"I'll  tell  you  something  funny; — Cuthbert  is 
beginning  to  pick  flaws  in  competition.  He's  just  the 
kind,  with  his  personal  grouch  against  the  universe, 
to  turn  red-hot  Marxian,  if  he  does  turn.  Now  it 
seems  to  me — though  I  say  it  with  bated  breath — 
that  there  are  some  fallacies  in  Marx; — not  many,  but 
some. 

"  Shall  I  send  you  my  copy? — it's  in  the  original 
German;  I  had  hard  work  getting  it.  Cuthbert  is 
using  my  incomplete  English  edition,  just  now. — 
Yours,  LuciAN." 


124  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"Rah!  Rah!  Rah!  for  the  new  editor!— or  do 
they  call  you  the  editress  ?  Enclosed  please  find  my 
subscription,  to  be  renewed  as  long  as  the  present 
management  endures.  Shall  you  always  have  an 
editorial  in  every  week?  How  does  it  feel,  Clara? 
Does  it  remind  you  of  the  days  when  you  used  to  lick 
the  stamps  for  the  Message  of  New  Hope  ?  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing,  yours  has  the  reputation  of  being  the 
best  of  the  college  periodicals  from  the  women's 
colleges.  At  least  I  know  that's  what  they  think  here. 
So  now  it's  up  to  you. 

**  Won't  Uncle  Lew  be  pleased! — 

"  As  for  me — I  tremble  to  think  that  I  am  to 
approach  the  editoressial  presence  next  Sunday 
evening. 

"  I  suppose  you've  written  Trissy  that  he's  not 
the  only  pebble. — Yours — puffed  with  pride, 

''  LUCIAN." 

**  P.S. — I've  struck  up  with  a  Russian,  a  tremendous 
radical.  His  name  (Englished,  he  explains)  is 
Lazarus  Samson.     I'll  bring  him  out  some  night." 

"Dear  Miss  Editor, — If  you  are  seeking  the 
timely,  why  not  give  us  an  editorial  on  Tainted 
Money?  Such  a  topic  from  your  pen  would  be 
especially  piquante.  I  can  think  of  nothing  more 
likely  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  public  at  present 
than  an  intercollegiate  symposium  on  this  perplexed, 
question. — Faithfully  yours, 

"  A  Constant  Reader." 

"Good  Heavens,  Clara!  —  Talk  about  mental 
telepathy!    You  must  have  been  mailing  me  that 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  125 

inflammable  copy  of  your  paper  just  when  I  was 
dropping  my  little  fool  note  into  the  post  office.  To 
think  of  your  writing  it!  And  yet,  why  not?  Oh, 
bully  for  you!  Bully!  Bully!  Do  you  think  they 
will  do  anything  about  it  ?  Temporary  banishment  ? 
Perpetual  exile?  Thumbscrews  on  the  hand  that 
wields  the  pen  ?     I  wonder  ? 

*'  What  you  say  of  the  effect  upon  the  under- 
graduate mind  is  so  good.  To  expect  us  to  attend 
classes  in  ethics  and  then  not  make  the  practical 
appUcation!  And  then  all  their  sophistries  about 
not  judging  the  individual,  and  nothing  being 
proven.  You  were  very  clever  to  turn  the  issue 
away  from  the  business  men  to  the  business  methods. 
Nobody  wants  to  hound  individuals  whose  moral 
sense  hasn't  happened  to  keep  pace  with  the  times. 
But  that's  no  reason  we  should  take  their  money  and 
glorify  them.  For  we  do  glorify  them.  Talk  about 
the  corrupting  of  youth! 

"  Do  you  know  what  Cyrus  has  done?  He's 
written  to  Mr.  Warner  and  got  a  list  of  all  the  sources 
of  our  income.  I  tell  you,  they're  putrid,  some  of 
them — nothing  else  expresses  it.  But  as  I  say  to 
Cyrus — what  can  we  do  as  long  as  we  are  minors? 
He's  in  a  terrible  state  about  it.  I  don't  believe  he's 
sleeping  at  all.  It  affects  my  imagination,  power- 
fully; but  I  sleep  like  a  new-born  babe.  What  is 
reahty,  Clara? 

"  Be  sure  you  send  me  a  ticket  for  a  front  seat,  if 
they  throw  you  to  the  Hons.  Oh,  why  won't  some- 
body throw  me  to  the  lions?  I  do  so  long  for 
the  experience.  You  won't  half  appreciate  it. — 
Enviously,  Lucian." 


126  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

In  the  same  mail  came  this  little  note  from 
Cyrus: — 

''  Dear,  dear  Clara,— What  a  brave  thing  to  do! 
But  will  they  expel  you,  do  you  think  ?  It  frightens 
me  for  you.  But  didn't  you  find  it  a  relief  to  do 
something?  We  are  so  chained.  I  can't  seem  to 
bear  it.  I  wrote  Mr.  Warner,  asking  him  to  sell  out 
our  interests  in  the  southern  mills  and  a  lot  of  other 
things.  But  he  won't.  And  then  I  asked  him  to 
separate  the  dividends  and  only  send  me  certain  ones 
— and  he  says  it  is  impossible.  After  that  I  went 
out  over  the  bridge  and  emptied  my  pockets  into  the 
river.  I  had  to  do  something.  And  the  maddening 
thing  is  that  the  money  is  held  in  trust  so  long.  If  I 
thought  I  could  get  at  it  in  two  years  it  wouldn't  be 
so  bad.     But  to  have  to  wait  until  we're  twenty-five ! 

"  Mother  writes  that  quaUties  of  good  and  evil 
cannot  inhere  in  money.  I  am  glad,  for  her  sake, 
that  she  can  look  at  it  that  way. — Yours, 

"  Cyrus." 

But  there  was  no  martyrdom,  to  Lucian's  disgust 
and  my  secret  reUef . 

''You  poor  dear!"  he  wrote.  "Of  course  they 
aren't  going  to  do  anything  to  you.  I  knew  they 
wouldn't.  What  could  they  do?  Expel  you  for 
having  moral  principles  ? — No ;  ignore ! — That's  their 
little  game.  What  else  can  they  do?  And  already 
the  papers  have  been  switched  on  to  a  new  interest. 
No,  Clara ;  it  would  not  have  been  pretty  to  martyrise 
you  for  holding  the  same  opinion  as  a  bishop  and  a  few 
clergymen.    Oh,  what  an  opportunity  for  the  Church ! 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  127 

If  the  Church  would  come  out  now,  good  and  strong, 
and  clean  up  house,  and  talk  straight  to  its  rich  men, 
it  could  have  me;  and  there  are  plenty  more  of  my 
kind.  If  it  would  take  a  stand  on  Christian  prin- 
ciples, and  say,  '  I  won't  have  your  dirty,  bloody 
money,  that  you  make  by  starving  the  souls  and 
bodies  of  your  brothers.*  But  it  won't.  Oh,  no; 
it  will  go  on  time-serving  and  mammon-worshipping, 
the  same  old  way.  If  I  were  in  the  Church,  Hke  you, 
perhaps  I  should  stay  in  and  try  to  leaven  the  lump. 
But  I'm  not  in — and  it's  not  my  lump.  No  such  sour 
dough  for  mine. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  that's  blasphemy. 

"  LUCIAN." 

"  P.S. — Yes;  I've  given  up  my  class  at  the  settle- 
ment. To  tell  you  the  truth,  Clara,  I'm  rather  out- 
growing settlements.  They're  a  sort  of  dope,  but 
they  don't  remove  the  cause  of  the  industrial  disease. 
Of  course  I  shall  keep  up  my  subscription — for  the 
present — if  for  nothing  else,  because  I'm  grateful 
for  the  way  my  settlement  experience  has  opened  up 
to  me  the  genuine  poverty  of  the  poor.  I  doubt  if  I 
should  have  got  at  it  in  any  other  way.  But  one 
can't  do  everything,  and  I  think  I  can  put  in  my  time 
better  just  now  going  to  labour  meetings — the  real 
thing — than  teaching  shop-girls  Shelley  once  a  week." 

"  No,  madam;  you're  mistaken.  My  ideas  about 
the  Church  are  my  own,  I  don't  take  them  second- 
hand from  Lazarus  Samson  or  any  one  else.  And, 
Clara,  I  don't  say  this  arrogantly,  but  I  consider 
myself  a  member  of  that  mystical  body  just  as  much 
as  you.     But  I'm  not  a  cog  in  a  machine  that  is  oiled 


128  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

by  commercial  greed.  I  can't  pin  myself  down, 
either;  you  mustn't  expect  me  to.  I  believe  in  the 
immanence  of  God;  I  suppose  I'm  almost  a  Pantheist. 
But  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  Lazarus  Samson.  I 
couldn't  be  a  materialist  if  I  tried.  I  have  tried;  one 
tries  everything,  you  know. 

"And  now,  listen  to  this!  It  isn't  as  intelligibly 
to  the  point  as  prose  editorials  can  be.  Stick  to 
prose,  Clara !  At  least  the  world  catches  your  mean- 
ing ;  it  doesn't  get  the  drift  of  economic  thought  that's 
couched  in  hexameters. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  these? 

Vigil 

"  Yea ;  on  the  morrow  the  children  of  light  shall  come  forth 
to  deUver! 

Out  of  the  dawn  they  shall  ride.  They  shall  sing ;  and  the 
sound  of  their  singing 

Surely  shall  waken  the  sleepers  and  bring  to  confusion  the 
slothful. 

Surely  shall  stir  up  the  strife  we  confess  must  be  stirred  to 
salvation : 

Strife  that  we  listen  for,  long  for  and  shudder  at,  praying 
for  respite; 

Praying  the  hour  may  come  quickly,  and  praying,  faint- 
hearted, for  patience; 

And  the  words  of  the  song  shall  be,  '  Life !  more  abun- 
dantly life,  and  for  all  men ! 

Life !  We  do  know !  We  have  dreamed !  And  we  waken 
to  'stablish  the  vision.' 

"  Death,  where  he  sitteth  asquat  on  the  world,  shall  peer  out 

to  the  sunrise. 
Blink  at  the  oncoming  glory,  and  gibe  at  the  high-hearted 

singers. 
And  the  children  of  light  shall  not  stint  of  their  singing, 

nor  tarry,  nor  falter. 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  129 

Youth  the  eternal  shall  sit  on  their  brows,  and  their  eyes 

shall  be  fearless ; 
Terribly  swift  shall  they  be,  and  serene,  and  unsmiling,  but 

joyous. 
We  of  the  vigil  shall  lift  them  the  cup  that  we  brewed  in 

the  darkness. 
Lo!   they  shall  drink  of  our   trembling,  and   unto  them 

strength  shall  be  added ; 
Strength  for  the  wielding  of  swords.     And  the  morning 

shall  clamour  with  battle. 
Life! — more   abundantly  life! — and   for  all  men,   for  all 

men,  for  all  men ! 

"Cry  of  the  conqueror!  Miracle  song  that  the  peace- 
makers carol! 

Hark,  how  its  rapture  of  prophecy  sighs  through  the  gloom 
of  the  vigil ! 

And  the  children  of  light  shall  be  slain  in  their  strength 
and  their  shining  unwisdom. 

Slain,  with  the  dew  of  the  morning  undried  on  their  hair 
and  their  garments. 

"  I  am  afraid  their  lilt  is  rather  rocking-horsey,  but 
such  as  they  are  you  are  welcome  to  them,  O  Child  of 
Light! — Thy  sputtering  candle,  L.  E," 


VII 

The  later  letters,  those  written  after  Helen  had 
taken  her  degree  and  was  earning  her  own  living,  are 
all  more  or  less  uneasy  in  tone.  We,  too,  must  make 
decisions  presently.  It  was  a  haunting  thought. 
Helen  and  I  could  not  keep  away  from  it  when  we 
were  together. 

I  remember  one  day  her  saying:  "  No,  of  course 
you  don't  know  what  you  want  to  be.    You  have 

I 


130  THE  CHILDREls[  OF  LIGHT 

no  incentive.  You  don't  have  to  be  anything.  That's 
just  the  way  it  will  be  with  everybody  under  Socialism ; 
we  shall  die  of  inertia." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken/'  I  retorted. 
"  Under  Socialism  everybody  will  have  to  be  some- 
thing. But  I  don't  see  why  you  are  always  casting 
Socialism  in  my  teeth.  I'm  not  a  Socialist ;  at  least, 
Cuthbert  says  I'm  not." 

"  Cuthbert!  "  with  scorn.  "Cuthbert  will  always 
be  a  brigand,  under  any  economic  dispensation." 

"  Cuthbert  is  deepening,  Helen;  even  Lucian  says 
so.  Class-consciousness  may  be  a  dangerous  thing, 
but  it  is  helping  Cuthbert  to  get  out  of  himself." 

"  Into  a  bigger,  more  deluding  kind  of  selfishness; 
yes." 

"  It  needn't  be  selfishness." 

"  Oh,  but  your  bona  fide  Socialist  says  it  must  be." 

"  Not  if  he  takes  Christianity  into  consideration." 

"  But  then,  he  doesn't,  you  know." 

"  He'U  have  to." 

Helen's  silences  could  be  even  more  exasperating 
than  her  repartee.  I  endured  this  one  for  perhaps 
three-quarters  of  a  minute  and  then  exclaimed : — 

"  Do  you  believe  in  anything,  Helen?  " 

She  smiled  at  me  out  of  those  mocking,  steady 
eyes  of  hers,  a  smile  that  was  neither  yes  nor  no. 
Then  she  said,  and  there  was  a  tentative  note  in  the 
assertion — "  I  work." 

"But  without  a  plan? — Without  a  reason? — 
Without  a  hope?  " 

"  Ah — hope! — that  is  an  instinct." 

"  You  can't  simply  hope  in  the  abstract,  Helen. 
And  you  know  it  is  not  incentive  that  I  lack.     But  I 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  131 

must  see  the  meaning  of  the  work  I  do ;  I  must  know 
the  relation  it  bears  to  life." 

"  How  wiU  you  know?  "  she  asked. 

"  People  do  know.  People  are  not  all  agnostic, 
like  you.  And  when  my  work  comes  I  shall  know; 
just  as  I  know " 

"  The  Apostles'  Creed,"  she  finished  for  me. 

"  For  that  matter,  you  know  too,"  I  resumed, 
ignoring  her  religious  bait.  **  You  do  not  simply 
work,  you  choose  your  work.  Else  why,  when  you 
could  have  had  twelve  hundred  a  year  and  your  living, 
and  all  the  luxuries  of  the  season,  teaching  in  a 
boarding-school,  take  six  hundred  and  your  living — 
and  this  ?  "  This,  was  the  unheated  front  attic  of  the 
Settlement  House. 

Helen  went  to  her  window  and  looked  down.  The 
street  was  full  of  push-carts  and  mud;  of  dirty 
screeching  children,  and  pensive,  bearded  Jews. 

"Why?"  I  repeated. 

"  I  used  to  think  one  could  get  away  from  it,"  she 
said.  "  Do  you  remember,  Clara,  I  tried  to  get 
away — when  I  was  a  little  girl?  But  it  follows.  It 
follows." 

Her  eyes  were  on  that  shifting,  sodden  throng. 
"  Fm  more  comfortable  here;  that's  why.  If  I  had 
a  proper  sense  of  pride  I  should  be  in  that  boarding- 
school,  earning  money  to  pay  off  my  debt  to  you.'* 

"Oh,  Helen!" 

"  I  should.  As  it  is,  you  will  have  to  wait  twice 
as  long.  That's  because  Fm  pauperised,  Hke  all  the 
rest  of  these.  I  haven't  a  proper  sense  of  responsi- 
bility." She  paused.  "  What  I  can't  make  out  is 
where  the  committee  gets  the  money  to  pay  an 


132  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

assistant's  salary."  She  had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me 
with  disconcerting  suddenness.     *'  It  doesn't  appear." 

"  Doesn't  it?     How  odd!  "  said  I. 

"What  are  you  blushing  for,  Clara;  the  com- 
mittee? " 

"  Am  I  blushing  ? — I  should  think  any  one  would 
for  the  committee,  considering  the  amount  of  work 
you  do  for  that  money.  Lucian  was  talking  about 
it  the  other  night;  he  thinks  it's  starvation  wages." 

"  Much  he  knows  about  starvation  wages!  " 

*'  He  and  Cyrus  wanted  to  write  the  committee  and 
offer  to  make  it  larger  " — Helen's  eyes  were  start- 
lingly  fierce — "  but  I  told  them  the  head  worker 
only  had  eight  or  nine  hundred,  and  it  wouldn't  be 
decent  for  you  to  have  more." 

"  I  should  think  not.  I  don't  see  why  my  salary 
is  any  affair  of  theirs." 

I  had  almost  said,  "  It  isn't,"  but  instead  I 
murmured,  lowering  my  eyes,  "  It's  just  because 
they're  interested." 

VIII 

Those  were  days  in  which  Lucian's  imagination 
played  rather  persistently  around  love.  I  suppose 
it  was  a  part  of  his  general  restlessness.  He  was 
always  writing  lyrics  to  some  new  girl.  But  I  never 
thought  the  lyrics  very  good.  Girls  Hked  him  and 
invited  him  about  a  good  deal;  and  his  engagements 
often  interfered  with  his  coming  to  see  me.  Never, 
however,  with  his  letters.  Indeed,  he  wrote  rather 
more  frequently  during  his  senior  year  than  he  had 
before.  He  seemed  to  be  obliged  to  pour  himself  out 
to  some  one  every  time  he  discovered  a  new  divinity; 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  133 

and  I  was  convenient  and,  I  hope,  sympathetic.  But 
there  is  nothing  very  distinctive  about  those  letters, 
and  in  looking  them  over  I  do  not  find  any  that  seem 
to  me  worth  including  here,  except  this  one  in  which 
he  is  concerned  with  no  particular  girl,  but  rather 
with  love  and  matrimony  in  the  abstract. 

"  Dear  Clara, — When  I  came  home  from  the 
Randalls'  dance  last  night  I  found  Lazarus  Samson 
in  my  rooms.  He  drops  in  often  now,  and  I  like  to 
have  him.  It  warms  me  to  be  near  any  one  who  so 
bums  with  reality  at  the  core  of  him.  But  he  is  a 
queer  duck.  It  was  four  o'clock  this  morning  when 
we  stopped  talking.  We  talked  of  love.  Probably 
because  I  had  just  come  from  sitting  out  two  waltzes 
and  a  two-step  with  that  wee  crimson  tippet  flower, 
Daisy  Randall.  Not  that  we  talked  of  her.  Don't 
imagine  it.  I  should  not  think  of  talking  of  her  with 
any  one  but  you.  By  the  way,  Nicholas  Richards 
was  there,  and  I  discovered  that  she  had  given  him 
as  many  dances  as  she  had  me.  I  left  early.  Do 
you  believe  anything  so  small  and  dark  and  tenderly 
innocent  and  cosy  could  flirt?  Perish  the  thought! 
But  why  in  the  world  does  an  old  fellow  like  that — 
over  thirty  a  good  deal — want  to  try  to  turn  the  head 
of  a  bud  of  eighteen  ?  Of  course  she  was  flattered.  I 
left  before  supper. 

"  Samson  and  I  almost  quarrelled,  as  it  happened. 
He  was  holding  forth  about — well,  to  put  it  plainly, 
free  love;  and  lumping  in  all  that  sort  of  rotten 
nonsense  with  Socialism ;  and  finally  I  went  for  him. 
'  Where's  your  logic,  man  ?  '  I  said  to  him.  '  If 
ever  there  were  a  system  that  insisted  upon  restraint. 


134  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

and  discipline,  and  law,  as  concomitants  to  liberty 
— or  rather  as  inherent  in  liberty,  and  evolution — 
that  system  is  SociaUsm ;  and  yet  you  have  the  face 
to  sit  there  and  tell  me  that  in  the  realm  of  the 
passions  Socialism  will  permit  lawlessness,  licence — 
and  more  than  permit — encourage  ?  Call  it  anarchy, 
and  I'll  have  nothing  to  say.  It  is  anarchy;  and  we 
may  come  to  anarchy  in  the  millenium,  when  there's 
no  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage.  But  it's  not 
Socialism ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Socialism  except 
where  it  affects  the  economic  situation.  And  where 
it  does  not  affect  that  situation  it  will  be  discipUned 
and  law-bound,  and  there  won't  be  any  free  love 
about  it.  It  is  not  good  for  the  economic  situation, 
competitive  or  sociaUstic,  for  man  to  be  running 
round  indulging  his  soul  or  his  body  in  indiscrimate 
lusts '  (I  hope  you  don't  mind  plain-speaking,  Clara) ; 
'  it  corrupts  his  wiU  and  bloats  his  ego.  Socialism  is 
the  will  to  be  selfless,  if  I  understand  it.  Perhaps  I 
don't  understand  it.  Some  day  I  may  be  a  Socialist, 
who  knows?  Certainly  I  find  it  very  alluring.'  But 
then  Cyrus  comes  in  and  reads  me  a  chapter  out  of 
Tolstoy,  and  talks  about  the  inability  of  systems  to 
do  any  good  if  the  soul  is  still  unregenerate ;  and  I 
continue  to  ride  my  fence-rail.  But  in  any  case 
there  won't  be  any  free  love  in  my  Socialism. 

"  Clara,  I  think  I  will  tell  you  something.  Do  you 
remember  the  three  knots  I  tied  in  the  cord  of  our 
old  cassock?  Poverty,  Chastity,  Obedience? — Well, 
one  of  those  vows  I  have  kept — so  far;  because  when 
the  temptations  come — and  they  do  come,  of  course, 
to  every  man — I  always  see  you,  the  little  girl  you 
were,  wearing  the  cassock.  L.  E." 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  135 


Lucian  was  in  Europe  most  of  the  year  after  he  and 
I  left  college.  My  Cousin  Pauline  had  an  idea  that 
he  ought  to  study  at  some  foreign  university — 
EngUsh  or  German — for  a  while;  and  to  please  her 
he  went  about  from  one  to  another,  looking  them 
over.     But  he  never  matriculated. 

'*  It  is  very  bad  for  me,  this  sort  of  thing,  you  know, 
Clara,"  he  wrote.  "  I  could  so  easily  drift  into  a 
dilettante,  observatory  existence.  It  is  my  tendency 
to  take  life  as  a  picture,  anyway — never  to  connect 
myself  with  it.    Tell  me  how." 

His  letters  of  that  year,  except  one,  lack  some- 
thing of  the  buoyancy  and  ardour  that  so  fire  the 
younger  letters.  I  know  now  that  he  was  afraid  of 
himself,  and  that  despite  the  seeming  aimlessness  of 
those  drifting  days  he  was  making  his  great  decision. 

From  Oxford  he  sent  me  a  sonnet. 

"  I  have  had  the  good  luck  to  meet  the  chap  that 
lives  in  Shelley's  rooms  at  University  College,"  the 
letter  said.  "  I  was  there  the  other  night,  and  I  told 
him  a  lot  about  Shelley  that  he  didn't  know;  but 
he  took  it  calmly.  '  He  used  to  lie  here  on  the  rug 
and  roast  his  head  and  talk  about  the  universe  to 
Hogg,'  I  said.  And  my  host  said,  '  Fancy  I '  So 
after  a  while  I  left  my  host  and  went  down  and  sat 
in  the  Memorial  Room  with  the  drowned  image  of 
Shelley.     I  sat  there  a  long  while;  till  they  turned 


136  THE  CHILDREN>  OF  LIGHT 

me  out,  in  fact.    And  then  I  went  back  to  my  room 
at  the  Mitre  and  wrote  this  in  a  great  hurry. 

"  A  Grave  among  the  Eternal  " — 

You  remember  that  phrase  in  the  Adonais  ?     It 
seems  to  me  to  fit. 

"  That  day  ye  thrust  the  lad  without  the  gate, 
Ye  knew  not  that  the  high,  resistless  tide 
Would  bring  him  back;  would  sweep  all  bars  aside. 

And  strand  him,  well-belovdd,  where  so  late 

He  wandered  aUen  and  execrate. 
Ye  wise,  ye  could  not  know  that  when  he  died. 
His  spirit's  drowned  semblance,  glorified, 

Would  keep  herein  so  honourable  state. 

"  Ye  could  not  know  that  surely,  one  by  one. 

Those  silly  dreams  of  his  would  drift  ashore 

To  waiting  hearts, — your  hearts, — grown  covetous. 
Aye,  deck  his  shrine ! — Run,  relic-seekers,  run. 

Rescue  his  sea-changed  dreams !     Interpret  us 
His  message!     He  is  dead!  unbar  the  door! " 

"What  would  he  be  doing  to-day,  I  wonder? 
Living  in  Italy,  as  I  have  the  chance  to  live,  and 
writing  his  immortal  verse?  Would  he — could  he, 
to-day  ?  With  East  London  staring  him  in  the  eyes  ? 
— What  would  he  make  of  Tolstoy,  do  you  suppose? 
Ah,  they  didn't  have  Tolstoy  to  hound  them  in  those 
days.  What  do  you  make  of  him,  Clara? — I've 
been  reading  What  is  to  he  Done  ? — Hear  this ! — 

"  '  Self-denying  and  suffering  are  the  lot  and 
portion  of  a  thinker  and  an  artist,  because  their 
object  is  the  welfare  of  men.  Men  are  wretched: 
they  suffer  and  go  to  ruin.  One  cannot  wait  and  lose 
one's  time. 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  137 

'' '  A  thinker  and  an  artist  will  never  sit  on  the 
heights  of  Olympus  as  we  are  apt  to  imagine:  he 
must  suffer  in  company  with  men  in  order  to  find 
salvation  or  consolation.  .  .  . 

"  '  And  the  only  one  certain  characteristic  of  the 
presence  of  a  calling  is  the  self-denying,  the  sacrifice 
of  one's  self  in  order  to  manifest  the  power  ingrafted 
in  man  for  the  benefit  of  others.'  .  .  . 

**  And  shall  one  sacrifice  the  calling  in  order  to 
sacrifice  one's  self? 

"  If  it  were  an  empty  day  I  could  be  an  idle  singer 
without  a  qualm.  But  such  a  full  day ! — Shall  I  bind 
myself  to  the  wheel  of  committees  ? 

'*  '  He  must  suffer  in  company  with  men  in  order  to 

find  salvation  and  consolation  ' Lord  knows,  I'm 

not  bothering  about  salvation;  but  it  is  true  that  I 
can't  write  unless  I  have  something  to  write  about — 
and  we  can't  find  our  inspiration  among  doctrinaire 
philosophies,  the  way  those  revolutionary  poets  did. 
We  find  our  inspiration  in  life — and  life  must  be  lived, 
to  know  it.  And  if  life  be  Hved,  to-day — will  there  be 
time  to  make  a  song  of  it?  But  what  do  I  care  for 
reform,  an5rway?  Just  a  patching.  Shall  I  give 
myself  to  board-meetings  in  order  to  dam  a  fabric 
that  is  rotten? — Is  it  rotten? — Yours, 

*'  L.  E." 


X 

Two  more  letters  and  this  desultory  chapter  of  our 
youth  is  ended.  Not  that  we  left  off  being  young; 
one  does  not  break  that  habit  with  a  stroke  of  the 
pen.     But  undoubtedly  there  does  come  a  moment, 


138  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

before  one  is  so  very  old,  when  one's  attitude  towards 
life  fixes  itself;  perhaps  not  consciously.  And  these 
two  letters,  each  in  its  own  way,  record  such  a  moment. 

They  came  to  me  in  the  same  mail  and,  I  remember, 
I  opened  Lucian's  first.  But  to-day  his  letter  shall 
come  after  Cyrus's. 

I  had  begged  off  from  Europe  that  summer,  on  the 
plea  that  my  Cousin  Pauline  would  have  both  her 
boys  with  her  and  would  not  need  me.  Cyrus  went 
over  immediately  after  his  Commencement,  and 
Lucian  was  lingering  on  the  other  side  to  attend  a 
Socialist  congress;  merely  out  of  curiosity,  he  said, 
and  in  order  to  be  able  to  tell  me  about  it.  For  I  had 
begun  to  call  myself  a  Socialist  in  those  days,  though 
I  still  balked  at  the  party  and  at  economic  deter- 
minism. A  Socialist  of  an  individual  and  feminine 
variety,  Helen  called  me. 

It  was  in  late  August  that  the  letters  came. 

**  The  Holy  Mountain  of  La  Verna, 
**  Feast  of  the  Transfiguration. 

"  Clara  dear, — Do  you  see  where  I  am?  I  have 
been  here  a  week,  and  I  walked  over,  through  Borgo 
San  Sepolcro  and  Pieve  San  Stefano,  and  up  the  steep 
bare  ways  St.  Francis  used  to  travel.  He  came 
down  by  this  road  after  he  received  the  Stigmata; 
and  at  Borgo  they  almost  worshipped  him,  and  he 
escaped  to  the  monastery  at  Monte  Casale  for  a  httle 
while.  You  know  Monte  Casale — up  in  the  hills 
above  Borgo — where  the  three  robbers  repented  and 
became  brothers  minor.  I  shall  go  out  by  Bibbiena 
and  Poppi.  The  road  is  more  beautiful  that  way, 
but  it  does  not  search  the  heart  so  much.     It  is  very 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  139 

arid  above  Pieve,  on  those  treeless  hill-tops;  such  a 
desert — with  the  strange  ridge  of  dark  trees  like  an 
oasis  at  its  edge. 

"  The  brothers  have  been  very  good  to  me.  They 
have  let  me  alone,  and  I  have  spent  my  days  in  the 
beech-wood,  or  down  below  the  precipice  with  the 
white  sheep-dogs. 

"  Clara,  I  am  so  afraid  that  I  shall  come  here  to 
stay,  some  day.  And  yet,  perhaps  not  here;  but 
somewhere  separate.     I  am  afraid. 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  only  way  out  is  withdrawal. 
Giving  the  world  as  little  chance  to  sin  for  you  as 
possible.  It  is  Tolstoy's  way;  except  that  I  should 
start  less  hampered  than  Tolstoy — having  no  wife 
and  children.  If  there  were  an  order  of  preaching 
friars — not  necessarily  Roman  Catholic.  Or  rather, 
if  I  could  go  out  and  preach  on  my  own  responsi- 
bility, without  being  tied  to  any  organisation.  But 
it  seems  as  if  one  always  had  to  belong  to  something, 
to-day;  and  to  belong  to  something — to  be  tied,  to  be 
responsible,  in  any  way — that  is  fatal;  for  then  im- 
mediately one  begins  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  sins  of 
other  people,  and  to  make  them  commit  sins. 

*'  I  think  about  it  a  great  deal;  and  I  wonder  if 
perhaps  I  am  not  meant  to  do  this  thing.  Because, 
the  one  thing  that  might  tempt  me — to  stay — a 
selfish  thing — is  denied  me. 

"Or,  I  could  do  it  by  coming  here,  into  this 
monastery — for  example.  Giving  up  all  my  own 
torment  of  judging.  But  I  doubt  if  I  do  it  that  way. 
My  conscience  would  never  let  me  give  it  into  any 
one  else's  keeping — even  the  Church's  keeping.  Even 
yours.     But  I  should  like  to.     But  then,  when  one 


140  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

has  lived  much  in  Italy,  and  one  is  Anglo-Saxon,  one 
can  have,  inevitably,  so  Uttle  respect  for  the  Roman 
organisation.  I  should  like  to  ask  Tolstoy  about  it; 
and  yet  I  am  not  wholly  in  accord  with  Tolstoy 
either,  for  my  Christianity  is  at  bottom  more  doctrinal 
— more  dogmatic  I  suppose,  than  his.  If  only  I  could 
be  in  accord,  entirely,  with  some  one,  what  a  rest  it 
would  be ! 

*'  In  one  way,  perhaps,  you,  with  your  sane 
common  sense,  will  think  that  all  this  brooding  is 
useless  since  there  are  still  five  years  to  run  before 
I  can  repudiate  the  money  and  be  out  of  leading- 
strings,  even  if  I  would.  And  at  twenty-five  one  may 
see  things  quite  differently  from  the  way  one  saw 
them  at  twenty.  But  mother  is  asking  me  what  I 
am  going  to  *  be.'  She  thinks  I  might  make  a  good 
lawyer,  or  a  good  clergyman — something  that  talks 
and  persuades,  she  says.  Because  I  have  the  gift 
of  oratory — she  says.  Yet  I  cannot  persuade  her  to 
let  me  be,  first,  myself.  And  if  I  could  persuade  her, 
how  should  I  know  what  *  myself  '  is,  in  this  chaos  ? 

"  Lucian  says  I  am  morbid;  but  I  know  that, 
quite  weU.  What  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  write  to 
mother  and  urge  her  not  to  press  me  to  a  decision. 
TeU  her,  what  is  perfectly  true,  that  the  philanthropic 
work  I  am  doing  among  immigrants  in  America  wiU 
have  its  educational  value  for  me  whatever  else  I 
may  eventually  decide  to  be.  Don't  mention  what 
I  have  said  about  monasteries.  Try  to  comfort  her 
by  showing  her  that  I  shan't  be  just  drifting  even  if 
I  don't  begin  to  study  for  a  profession  at  once. 

"  How  can  any  one  make  decisions  that  involve 
living,  in  a  world  that  so  manifestly  isn't  fit  to  be 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  141 

lived  in  ?     How  can  any  one  be  anything  but  tentative 
in  a  civilisation  so  out  of  joint? 

"  One  thing  only  I  know,  and  that  is  that  I  must  get 
rid  of  the  mill-stone  of  the  money.  I  shall  take  five 
years  to  think  about  how  to  do  it. 

"  So  you  are  a  Socialist,  of  a  sort  ?  But  don't  you 
know,  Clara,  that  no  amount  of  external  system  will 
change  the  world  unless  men's  hearts  be  changed  ? 

"  Christianity  is  enough.  Can  you  call  yourself  a 
Christian  and  say  that  anything  else  is  needed? 

"  But  it  must  be  Christ's  Christianity,  not  the 
Roman  kind  that  broke  the  heart  of  St.  Francis,  nor 
the  Greek  kind  that  has  excommunicated  Tolstoy, 
nor  the  Anglican  kind  that  is  established,  nor  the 
Protestant  kind  that  is  anybody's  vagary.  Am  I 
an  early  Christian  or  merely  an  ultra-Protestant? 
When  I  ask  myself  that  question  I  begin  to  wonder 
if  I  ought  not  to  stick  by  Franciscanism,  the  Roman 
variety,  for  safety's  sake.     Can  one  be  too  individual  ? 

"  Cuthbert  told  me  I  was  an  anarchist,  the  day 
before  Commencement.  Cuthbert  has  all  his  social 
definitions  at  his  tongue's  end.  He  says  that  Tolstoy 
and  I  are  both  anarchists,  but  that  being  anarchists 
we  are  different  kinds. 

**  At  any  rate,  dear,  you  need  not  worry  over  me 
for  five  years  to  come.  I  shall  stick  to  my  Italian 
Circolo  and  my  immigrants.  The  Httle  harm  that  I 
can  do  them  will,  I  must  hope,  not  be  counted  against 
me  in  the  end,  since  I  am  tied. — Yours, 

"  Cyrus." 

The  letter  worried  me  a  good  deal.  It  was,  indeed, 
a  morbid  letter.    No  one,  at  twenty,  ought  to  write 


142  THE  CHILDREN 'OF  LIGHT 

a  letter  like  that.  And  yet,  if  one  did  not  write  it  at 
twenty,  perhaps  one  never  would. 

I  went  back  to  one  paragraph  in  it  again  and  again. 
What  was  the  thing,  the  selfish  thing,  that  might 
tempt  him  to  stay  in  the  world — but  was  denied  him  ? 
I  did  not  like  to  think  what  it  might  be. 

And  Lucian,  too,  had  been  making  his  decisions, 
it  seemed.  The  exultation  of  his  greeting  shouts  at 
me  from  the  flimsy  foreign  note  paper  that  I  have 
folded  and  unfolded  so  many  times. 

"  Dear  Comrade!  "  it  begins. — "  Dear  Comrade! 
— Hark  to  the  epithet! — Yes,  I've  gone  and  done  it. 
Done  it  brown!  I've  joined  the  Party.  Swept  off 
my  feet.  Yes! — But  you'd  never  guess  w^ho  did  the 
sweeping.  It  wasn't  the  Congress;  though  that  was 
avalanche  enough,  heaven  knows.  Nor  it  wasn't 
Bebel,  nor  Jaures,  nor  any  of  the  other  torrential 
giants;  though  the  confluent  streams  of  their  logic 
washed  over  me  and  through  me  as  resistlessly  as  a 
mill-race  submerges  weeds.  I  and  all  the  other  little 
blades  of  grass  were  bent,  prostrate,  one  way,  like 
Dante's  pm-gatorial  herbs.  Nor  it  wasn't  the 
Marseillaise  ;   though  that  did  nearly  finish  me. 

"But  to  begin: — The  second  day — which  would 
be  only  yesterday  if  I  hadn't  Hved  an  immortal  one 
since; — WeU,  we'll  call  it  yesterday; — during  a  re- 
cess, when  I  was  stretching  my  legs — there  appeared 
on  a  street  crossing  a  loose-hung,  elfish,  bespectacled 
man,  stooping  a  Httle  as  to  his  shoulders,  but  with  a 
glance  that  stood  upright  and  pulled  you  up  to  it. 
Nothing  haughty;  don't  misunderstand  me;  rather 
a  mild  glance — tranquil  is  a  better  word — with  a 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  143 

quizzical  gleam  in  the  comer  of  it.  Is  there  any- 
thing famihar  about  those  eyes,  Clara?  Do  they 
remind  you  of  some  one  ? 

'*  '  I  have  been  wondering  if  your  name  is  Lucian 
Emery/  said  he.     '  Mine  is  Llewellyn  Evans.' 

**  Uncle  Lew!  "  I  shouted.  And  you  should  have 
seen  the  radiance  of  him. 

*'  '  You  looked  so  like  the  boy  that  Clara  writes 
about/  he  said,  '  I  had  to  risk  it.' 

''  He  is  here  as  American  delegate  from  Milwaukee. 
They're  rather  thick  up  that  way,  you  know.  We  went 
to  a  co-operative  restaurant  and  ate,  and  talked  of  you 
and  me  and  him,  and  SociaUsm.  Somehow,  before 
the  evening  session  was  called,  I  had  told  him  all  my 
hopes  and  fears  and  doubts  and  dares  and  didn't-dares. 

"  '  I  was  squeamish  too,'  he  said.  '  You  see,  I 
was  a  shouting  Methodist.  I  went  into  co-operation 
for  the  sake  of  brotherly  love;  and  then  later  I  ran 
up  against  the  class  struggle.  And  it  took  me  quite 
some  time  before  I  was  able  to  define  the  class  struggle 
in  terms  of  brotherly  love.  But  it  can  be  done. 
I've  done  it.'  He  rested  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
his  chin  in  his  hands  and  looked  somewhere  off 
towards  the  New  Jerusalem.  *  I  come  not  to  bring 
peace,  but  a  sword,'  he  said.  '  Yes;  it's  brotherly 
love  that  makes  me  dig  my  proletarian  brother  in  the 
ribs  and  say,  "Sic  him!"  It's  brotherly  love  that 
makes  me  hold  up  my  capitaHst  brother  and  say, 
"  Your  money  or  your  life!  "  I  am  my  brother's 
keeper.  I  accept  the  responsibihty.  I'm  out  after 
souls,  I  am.' 

*' '  But  they  are  out  after  bodies,'  I  threw  in. 
'  Material  things ' 


144  THE  CHILDREN-  OF  LIGHT 

"  '  That's  just  their  bluff/  he  said.  '  And  who 
are  they  ?    I'm  they.     You'll  be  they.' 

But  economic  determinism  is  so  horribly  con- 
vincing,' I  said.  '  Morals  are  determined  by  economic 
conditions.  History  bears  it  out.  It's  devilish.  It 
can't  be  true.' 

*' '  Not  devilish — divine,'  he  contradicted.  And 
when  I  waited,  he  went  on : — '  Let's  take  our  dear 
old  myth  of  the  Creation.  Genesis,  Chapter  I.  What 
is  it  but  a  statement  of  the  materiahstic  basis  of 
history?  "  In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven 
and  the  earth,"  economic  determinism  in  a  nut-shell. 
Nothing  said  about  souls;  but  a  place  for  souls  to 
grow  in.  Some  time  later — days  we  say  for  conveni- 
ence— He  formed  man  out  of  the  dust  of  the  ground ; 
— another  place  made  ready ;  and  He  breathed  into 
his  nostrils  the  breath  of  hfe;  and  man  became  a 
Hving  soul — with  a  capacity  for  being  morahsed — 
through  temptation.  Economic  conditions  prepared 
the  way — a  garden  eastward  in  Eden,  a  stimulating 
helpmate,  idleness.' 

** '  But  creation  didn't  come  first,'  I  reminded 
him.     '  God  came  first — the  moral  principle.' 

"  '  Yes,  God,'  he  agreed.  '  But  if  I  didn't  believe 
He  was  something  a  good  deal  bigger  than  a  moral 
principle,  I  would  give  up.' 

"  '  But  they  don't  beUeve  He  came  first.  They 
think  we  invented  Him.* 

'* '  They  think,'  said  Uncle  Lew,  leaning  across 
the  table  till  his  nose  almost  touched  mine.  '  They 
think  that  the  underlying  cause  of  creation  is  a 
mystery,  which  possibly  man  may  never  fathom. 
But  when  we  get  our  universal  language  what  do 


EPISTOLARY  AND  POETICAL  145 

you  bet  we  don't  discover  that  mystery  is  a  scientific 
synonym  for  God?  ' 

'*  Then,  simultaneously,  we  remembered  our  co- 
operative Frankfurters,  now  cold,  and  our  beer,  now 
warm.  And  we  stowed  them  away  in  a  manner  that 
would  scandalise  Mr.  Fletcher — and  ran  for  the  hall. 
Herv6  was  talking,  and  I  was  glad  Uncle  Lew  had 
found  me,  for  he's  been  Hving  on  faith  and  newspaper 
reports  thus  far — not  understanding  either  French 
or  German.  I  managed  to  scribble  a  translation  for 
him  as  the  different  ones  got  the  floor. 

"  And  so  it  happens  that  this  morning  I  woke  up 
to  find  myself  a  Socialist.  Or  rather,  I  hadn't  been 
to  sleep,  for  suddenly  at  one  moment  turning  over 
in  bed  I  was  aware  that  I  was  a  Socialist.  And  aU 
the  world  came  real.  If  I  could  describe  to  you  that 
strange  birth-moment.     But  I  can't. 

"  All  that  it  means  I  don't  know  yet.  But  inevit- 
ably a  part  of  its  meaning  is  renunciation.  Look  at 
Uncle  Lew! 

"  And,  Clara,  I  count  on  you.  It  all  began  with  you. 
It  was  you  who  first  revealed  to  me  the  possibility  of  a 
real  world.  Do  you  remember  that  day  we  sat  in  the 
old  cleft  rock  and  I  told  you  the  story  of  St.  Francis, 
and  you  capped  it  with  your  co-operative  colony, 
where  you  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  hungry,  and 
to  beg?  I  thought  of  that,  last  night.  There  was 
almost  nothing  I  didn't  think  of  and  remember,  last 
night.  Suppose  you  hadn't  come? — I  count  on  you 
to  stand  by  me  when  mother  and  the  marchese,  and 
the  trustees  and  Tristram  Lawrence,  and  any  other 
dream  people  protest.  I  count  on  you  to  stand  by 
me   if   unreality   tempts.    Even   if   I   never   write 


146  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

another  line  of  verse — will  you  stand  by  me,  Clara? 
This  may  not  be  the  minstrel's  hour,  you  know. 
They  may  need  him  to  stoke  the  furnace. 

"  At  dawn  I  was  leaning  out  of  my  window  among 
these  Gothic  gables  that  overhang  the  pubUc  square. 
And  I  said,  '  The  question  is — is  this  the  road  up 
Parnassus?  '  And  having  said  it  out  aloud,  I  knew 
that  it  wasn't  the  question  at  all — nor  never  was, 
with  any  true  poet. 

"So  it's — Ho,  for  Propaganda! — Yom:  comrade, 

*'L/* 


BOOK  II 

COMMON    DAY 


**  The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest. 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 

Wordsworth,  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality. 


CHAPTER  I 

LIGHTING  THE  TORCH 


"  There  is  no  question  it  would  be  a  boon  to  the 
party,"  said  Lazarus  Samson.  "  On  such  a  financial 
basis,"  he  added,  and  catching  my  eye,  smiled  frankly. 

His  smile  is  one  of  his  assets,  and  on  public 
platforms  he  works  it  rather  hard.  The  fastidious 
criticise  him  for  it.  And  it  is  true  that  if  one  sits 
near  the  back  of  the  hall  and  doesn't  see  very  well, 
the  effect  is  a  bit  mechanical.  But  then,  the  whole 
effect  of  Lazarus  is  mechanical,  a  bit.  He  is  like  a 
very  finely  adjusted  instrument,  edgy,  accurate — if 
need  be,  swift.  Not  a  sword;  nothing  so  showy  and 
romantic;  a  safety  razor,  rather.  He  is  a  little  man, 
thin,  sallow,  and  rectangular.  His  smile  has  none 
of  the  oblique  quality  that  makes  Uncle  Lew's  so 
endearing;  yet,  of  its  kind,  it  is  as  honest. 

"  A  daily  would  be  more  of  a  boon,"  said  Cuthbert, 
doggedly. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Lucian  agreed,  the  tinge  of  im- 
patience in  his  tone  that  was  there  invariably  when 
he  discussed  anything  with  Cuthbert. 

"  Better  go  slow,"  counselled  Uncle  Lew. 

"  That's  why,"  said  Lucian.  "  Of  course,  I'd 
rather  begin  with  a  daily;  but  think  of  all  the  things 
we  don't  know  about  running  a  newspaper." 

149 


150  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  WeU,  I  know  a  few."    This  from  Cuthbert. 

'*  Reporting  isn't  everything,"  said  I.  Perhaps  I, 
too,  was  a  bit  impatient. 

Cuthbert  shoved  his  hands  combatively  deeper 
into  his  trousers'  pockets  and  his  legs  nearer  the  fire. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  reached  all  the  way  across  the  room 
and  beyond,  when  he  lounged  in  that  particular 
posture. 

There  was  a  midsummer  storm  screaming  in  the 
dark  around  the  farmhouse.  The  study  windows 
flowed  down  like  waterfalls.  From  the  living-room 
Bertha  Aarons's  haranguing  voice  penetrated  to  us, 
and  intermittently  some  one  in  there  dnunmed  on 
the  piano. 

*'  If  I  had  been  content  to  start  it  as  a  weekly," 
observed  Uncle  Lew,  "  it  might  not  have  come  to 
grief  so  soon." 

**  It  hasn't  come  to  grief,"  interrupted  Lucian. 

"Well,  no;  I  suppose  not — if  you  back  it." 
Uncle  Lew  and  Larazus  Samson  smiled  at  each  other. 

"  If  you  had  only  come  to  me  in  the  first  place," 
Lucian  protested. 

**  How  could  he,  when  you  were  in  Russia,  revolu- 
tionising? "  I  asked. 

'*  Yes;   I  suppose  I've  wasted  heaps  of  time." 

But  Uncle  Lew  put  in  his  protest.  "  Not  a  bit  of 
it.  Who  could  settle  down  with  Japan  and  Russia  at 
each  other's  throats — and  then  the  uprising  in 
Russia? " 

"  How  about  the  fellows  that  can't  raise  their 
travelling  expenses?  "  queried  Lucian.  "  They  have 
to  settle  down." 

Cuthbert  sniffed. 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  151 

"  But  now  you  will  have  this  satisfaction/'  smiled 
Lazarus.  "  You  will  not  either  raise  your  travelling 
expenses  any  more,  if  you  finance  this  paper.  You 
can  sink  any  amount." 

**  Praised  be! "  Lucian  got  up,  beaming,  and 
stretched  himself. 

"  Then  I  understand  that  you  take  it  over,  as  it 
stands,  assets  and  liabilities,"  said  I,  knowing  that 
Uncle  Lew  would  never  be  the  first  to  mention  these 
details  ? 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  has  any  assets,"  he  murmured 
now. 

**  It  has  you!"  cried  Lucian.  "And  you  weigh 
against  any  number  of  liabilities." 

*'  Only  I've  never  been  bought  yet."  There  was 
warning  in  Uncle  Lew's  smile. 

"  Just  the  same,  you're  mine,  for  keeps,"  Lucian 
retorted.  "  And  it  has  the  name — The  Torch — That 
we  keep  too." 

*'  You  might  find  a  better,"  Uncle  Lew  demurred. 
*'  A  torch  is  smoky — lurid — it  flares  unsteadily." 

*'  And  don't  we,  as  yet?  " 

"  By  we,  who  do  you  mean?  "  inquired  Cuthbert. 
'*  There's  nothing  unsteady  about  the  party.  There's 
nothing  unsteady  about  the  march  of  Socialism; 
there's  not  a  more  inevitable  thing  in  nature.  It  is 
Nature." 

"  Steady  by  jerks,"  said  Lucian.  "  At  least,  if 
you're  a  revolutionary  Socialist." 

"  The  economic  paradox,"  murmured  Lazarus. 

Cuthbert  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  I  knew 
that  the  evening  would  be  gone  if  we  once  strayed 
into   abstract   discussion;     and   both   Lazarus   and 


152  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Uncle  Llewellyn  must  go  back  to  the  city  the  next 
day. 

"  And  do  you  pay  a  certain  fixed  sum?  "  I  began 
again,  hurriedly. 

"You? — What's  the  matter  with  saying  we?" 
Lucian  demanded.  "  Aren't  you  in  this  deal,  Clara? 
I  counted  on  your  sinking  a  little  something." 

"  But  if  it  is  a  party  organ?  " 

"  Join  the  party!  "  Cuthbert  chanted. 

"  Maybe  she  might,  if  you  didn't  hanmier  at  her 
so  about  it,"  Lucian  remarked. 

"  I  do  not  see  a  necessity  to  have  each  member  of 
the  staff  a  party  member,"  volunteered  Lazarus. 
*'  If  I  understand  Miss  Emery,  it  is  a  question  of 
tactics  why  she  stays  out.  On  the  economic  pro- 
gramme she  is  as  sound  as  you  or  me.  Our  American 
methods  she  don't  find  herself  always  to  agree  with, 
that's  aU." 

"  Well,  she  can't  moralise  the  party  by  staying 
outside  the  party,"  said  Cuthbert.  "  If  she  wants  to 
convert  us,  let  her  come  in  and  be  virus." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  faltered. 

"  When  she  does  come  in  it'll  be  to  stay,"  said 
Uncle  Lew.  "  I  know  Clara.  But  meanwhile,  just 
because  she  is  outside,  she  gets  at  a  section  of  the 
community  we  can't  touch.  I  count  on  Clara  to  work 
up  the  subscription  list  in  the  women's  colleges " 

"  There  speaks  the  managing  editor!  "  cried  Lucian. 

"  Oh,  no!   that's  you!  "  protested  Uncle  Lew. 

Here  Helen  put  her  head  in  from  the  Uving-room, 
looked  round  upon  us,  and  let  her  eyes  linger  on  me. 
*'  Never  mind!  "  she  said  vaguely;  and  then,  "  Just 
for  a  minute." 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  153 


II 

I  went  with  her  into  the  living-room,  where  Bertha 
Aarons  was  waving  the  empty  corn-popper  and 
saying : — 

*'  Now  what  do  you  say  we  organise  the  shop 
when  we  go  back  ?  Here's  five  of  us.  And  Beppina 
Capponi,  why  don't  you  organise  Eckstein's?  " 

Beppina's  response  was  lost  to  me,  for  Helen 
had  drawn  me  through  the  Uving-room  and  to  the 
piazza. 

"  Feel  this,"  she  said.  "  The  Young  Leonardos 
can't  possibly  sleep  in  the  meadow  to-night.  The 
ground  is  a  sponge,  and  no  tent  will  stand  against 
this  wind." 

"  I've  felt  it,"  said  I,  "  let's  go  in."  And  we  backed 
into  the  living-room  again  and  let  the  door  slam. 

"  Twenty  of  them,"  continued  Helen.  "  I  told 
Cyrus  he  couldn't  count  on  the  weather." 

''Where  is  Cyrus?" 

'*  He  took  Vincenzino  Spilla  up  on  the  five  o'clock 
train  to  have  his  tooth  out.  He  has  just  telephoned 
that  he  can't  get  a  team  to  bring  them  home  to-night. 
I  should  think  not!" 

"  The  Young  Leonardos  will  have  to  sleep  on  the 
floor  of  the  kitchen  and  the  parlour  in  the  farmer's 
house,"  I  said.     "  Fortunately  they  are  Httle  fellows." 

"  They  are  there  now,  with  your  Cousin  Pauline, 
making  box  kites." 

"  They  adore  her,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  Helen  admitted.  "  But  she'll  be  coming 
over  here  presently,  and  somebody  must  sleep  with 


154  THE  CHILDREN'  OF  LIGHT 

them.  Cuthbert  can't  get  back  to  his  father's 
to-night;   he  might  as  well." 

"  Dump  him  in  with  a  settlement  club  to  keep  order  ? 
When  he  doesn't  believe  in  settlements?  We  can't 
do  that." 

"Who  is  Cuthbert,  anyway?  "  demanded  Helen. 

"  I  know.     But  he's  a  guest.     Lucian  will." 

"Very  well!"  said  Helen  grimly.  "You  break 
it  to  him." 

"  When  Cousin  Pauline  comes  over,  keep  her  out  of 
the  study  as  long  as  you  can,"  I  begged.  "  We're  so 
busy." 

"  She's  got  to  stay  where  she  is  for  a  while,  any- 
way." Helen  reached  for  the  telephone  receiver, 
and  I  threaded  my  way  around  the  working  girls 
sitting  on  the  floor. 

"  If  there's  another  cut,  we'll  do  it,"  proclaimed 
Bertha  Aarons.  The  corn-popper  was  full  now  and 
she  was  shaking  it  over  the  coals.  "  And  there's  a  cut 
coming.     You  watch!" 

"  Yes,  we'll  do  it!  "  said  the  girls,  looking  around 
upon  one  another  anxiously. 

"  The  Women  Garment  Workers,"  Bertha  said. 
"  Don't  it  sound  fine !  And  we'll  make  them 
recognise  us." 

"  Don't  it  sound  fine?  "  echoed  Beppina  Capponi 
doubtfully,  as  I  shut  the  study  door. 

Ill 

Lucian  was  drifting  along  the  book-shelves,  pluck- 
ing a  book  out,  here  and  there,  and  shuffling  the 
leaves. 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  155 

"  It's  all  settled,"  he  called  to  me.  "  The  Woman's 
Page  is  yours,  Clara;  at  a  salary  of  S5000.00  a  year, 
to  be  paid  to  yourself  on  demand,  by  your  own 
personal  cheque.  Uncle  Lew  will  take  the  make-up, 
and  Lazarus  the  foreign  field;  Cuthbert  will  handle 
the  reporters — City  Editor  when  we  blossom  daily. 
And  the  broad  generalisations,  the  philosophical 
leading  articles,  the  prophetic  interpretations,  shall 
be  mine.  You  and  I,  in  other  words,  will  hold  up 
the  literary  end  of  this  periodical.  The  others  will 
look  after  the  man  in  the  street.  What  do  you  think 
of  this  for  a  motto  ?  From  the  Revolt  of  Islam,  do 
you  remember  ? — 

"  '  When  mankind  doth  strive 
With  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood ; 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  Hke  Hghtnings,  are  alive. 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice  and  truth  with  custom's  hydra  brood 
Wage  silent  war ;  when  priests  and  kings  dissemble 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disquietude; 
When  round  pure  hearts  a  host  of  hopes  assemble; 
The    snake    and    eagle    meet  —  the    world's    foundations 
tremble! '  " 

*'  Why  not  print  the  whole  poem  while  you're 
about  it?  "  growled  Cuthbert. 
"  Well,  here's  a  shorter,  from  Casa  Guidi  Windows: — 

*'  *  We  hurry  onward  to  extinguish  hell 

With  our  fresh  souls,  our  younger  hopes,  and  God's 
Maturity  of  purpose.'  " 

*'  And  to  these  foreign  correspondents  do  I  offer, 
how  much?  "  inquired  Lazarus. 
*^**  Oh,    whatever   is   right,    of   course."     Lucian's 
head  was  in  another  volume  of  poetry. 


156  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  I  might  find  out  from  Tristram  Lawrence  what 
he  pays  for  foreign  articles.  He  has  the  best  people, 
for  his  point  of  view,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,  do!  "  said  Lucian.  "  And  we'll  pay  a  Uttle 
more  than  he  does.  I  should  always  want  to  go 
one  better  than  Trissy,  you  know."  Lucian's  eyes, 
looking  over  the  top  of  his  book  at  me,  were  defiant 
despite  their  smile.  They  puzzled  me.  His  whole 
manner,  of  late,  in  regard  to  Tristram,  puzzled  me. 

"  We  must  work  out  a  budget,"  Lazarus  continued. 
"And  who  is  treasurer?  He  must  know  what  he 
will  have  to  draw  on " 

"On  me — that's  what!"  said  Lucian.  "Listen 
to  this!— 

"  *  Let  there  be  Ught!  said  Liberty.'— 

Or  do  you  like  this  better? — 

"  '  Reason  is  the  fairest  lamp  for  man.* 

Oh,  you  fellows  needn't  try  to  look  interested.  I 
know  you're  not.  But  I  take  my  stand  for  a  motto. 
It's  aU  I  do  ask  for." 

"  And  we  will  decide  on  a  place  for  of&ces,  and  if 
we  print  ourselves  or  make  contracts  with  a  printing 
house." 

"  Union,"  from  Cuthbert. 

"  There  is  a  house  of  ours,"  said  I.  "  Where  is  it 
— Monroe  Street  ? — in  a  row  with  a  colonnade  of  stone 
pillars  along  the  second  story.  It  used  to  be  a 
residence  district,  all  that,  but  it's  business  now. 
You  pass  it  when  you  go  down  to  the  settlement,  if 
you  walk  across." 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  157 

"  Monroe  Street — you  do  not  mean  those  old  houses 
so  elegant  in  a  row,  like  a  picture  of  a  temple  of 
Greece?  *'  Awe  softened  the  staccato  of  Lazarus 
Samson's  utterance. 

"  Yes;  I  happen  to  remember  because  when  I 
went  over  the  property  with  Mr.  Warner  last  year, 
when  he  turned  over  my  share,  he  spoke  of  this  house 
as  one  whose  lease  would  expire  this  autumn.  It  is 
a  boarding-house,  I  think,  wedged  in  between  whole- 
sale woollen  and  printing." 

"  But  you  could  rent  it  to  great  advantage  for 
you,"  suggested  Lazarus. 

"Why  should  we?" 

Lazarus's  mechanism  clicked  excitedly.  He  got 
up  and  walked  across  the  floor  and  back  again.  '*  If 
we  can  make  a  start  so  big  as  that !  "  he  said.  "  Such 
a  dignity  to  encompass  us.  I  did  not  think  such  big 
plans.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  expect — "  Then 
his  smile  widened  across  his  face,  and  he  sat  down. 

"  Here's  Moody's  Fire  Bringer,"  said  Lucian. 
"How's  this?— 

"  '  Seeing  the  taper  of  small  excellent  light 
He  lifteth  in  his  hand,  the  night  rolls  on 
Before  him,  and  day  follows  after  him.* 

Or  no, — wait — wait! — I've  got  it! — I've  got  itl — 
Listen ! — 

"  '  About  his  torch  shineth  a  dust  of  souls, 
Daughters  and  sons,  who  fly  into  the  light 
With  trembling,  and  emerge  with  prophecy.* 

Whoop ! "    Lucian  threw  the  book  into  the  air  and 
caught  it  with  clapped  hands. 


158  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Capital!  "  said  Uncle  Lew. 

"See,  Clara!  "  Lucian  brought  the  book  to  me 
and  dropped  on  his  knee  beside  my  chair. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  have  at  least  three  men  for 
assignments,"  observed  Cuthbert.  "  We  shall  need 
to  keep  in  touch  with  state  activities  as  well  as  the 
city ;   and  who  runs  the  Washington  end  of  things  ?  " 

"  I  know  a  comrade  there,"  said  Uncle  Lew. 
"  Two  or  three  that  would  do."  He  gave  their 
names  and  credentials. 

In  the  living-room  my  Cousin  Pauline  began  to 
sing  "  Caro,  mio  ben." 

"  You  -^dll  have  to  sleep  over  at  the  farmer's  with 
the  Young  Leonardos,"  I  said  in  an  undertone  to 
Lucian. 

"  If  we  have  our  own  printing-plant,  closed  shop, 
it  would  be  simpler,"  Cuthbert  was  saying  when  I 
turned  to  listen. 

"  And  maybe  more  expense,"  said  Lazarus. 

But  the  door  opened,  and  my  Cousin  PauHne  came 
in  with  a  bowlful  of  popcorn.  Behind  her  Helen's 
deprecatory  eyebrows  grimaced  at  me. 

IV 

The  marchese  had  gone  out  to  the  Rockies  with  a 
party  of  Appalachians,  to  climb  Mount  Tacoma,  and 
my  Cousin  Pauline  was  chaperoning  us  for  the 
moment.  I  think  she  was  also  a  little  anxious  about 
Cyrus,  who  had  come  into  his  share  of  the  property 
a  few  months  earlier,  and  was  taking  what  she  con- 
sidered a  rather  alarming  interest  in  an  Anglican 
religious  order  that  was  building  a  monastery  in  our 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  159 

valley.  At  any  rate,  she  had  been  with  us  since 
early  spring,  and  talked  of  spending  the  winter  on 
this  side. 

'*  Come  in,  mother!"  cried  Lucian.  "We're 
hatching  a  new  plot." 

Uncle  Lew  brought  a  chair  for  her  and  she  shook 
her  finger  at  him.  "  What  mischief  are  you  leading 
my  boy  into  now?  "  she  asked. 

But  it  appealed  to  her  when  she  heard  what  it  was. 
And  I  am  afraid  we  did  not  try  to  dispel  her  naive 
delusion  that  editors  of  magazines  command  ex- 
ceptional opportunities  for  the  writing  of  verse. 

"  If  I  could  but  feel  as  much  at  ease  about  your 
brother,"  she  sighed. 

Whereupon  Helen  laughed  rather  annoyingly,  and 
said  one  might  suppose  Cyrus  was  all  that  was  dis- 
sipated and  improper. 

"Ah,  but  a  little  natural  dissipation  I  could  under- 
stand," mourned  my  Cousin  Pauline. 

Bertha  Aarons  in  the  doorway  fixed  her  dis- 
illusioned Russian  eyes  on  Cyrus's  mother.  "  If 
madame  could  have  a  really  worry,  once,"  she 
remarked. 

I  saw  amusement  flash  across  Lazarus  Samson's 
face,  and  his  finger  touch  his  lips  wamingly.  He 
was  very  polite  to  all  of  us,  always,  was  Lazarus; 
even  to  Lucian  whom  he  knew  best.  Not  obsequious, 
but  careful. 

"  Dear  child," — my  Cousin  Pauline  reached  out  a 
caressing  hand  to  Bertha — "  you  cannot  know,  of 
course,  but  believe  me,  hunger  and  poverty  are  the 
least  of  worries." 

"  I  can  say  that,"  the  girl  replied — "  I  do  say  that. 


i6o  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

All  Young  Russia  says  it  when  it  suffers  to  teach  the 
peasants  revolution.  But  it  don't  come  well  from 
you." 

"  Miss  Aarons  does  not  explain  herself  so  polite  as 
she  means,"  interposed  Lazarus  hurriedly.  "  To  have 
a  son  who  is  something  approaching  to  an  American 
edition  of  Tolstoy — ^we  wouldn't  consider  that  a 
worry  for  a  mother." 

"  No,  I  ain't  poHte,"  said  Bertha  tranquilly. 

"  The  marchesa  knows  how  to  make  allowance 
for  our  bad  breaks,"  Uncle  Lew  added. 

"You! — You  are  a  finished  courtier!"  Again 
my  Cousin  Pauline's  finger  admonished  him. 

"  And  that's  the  rudest  thing  you  ever  said  to  me," 
he  retorted. 

"  But  you  Young  Russians  don't  believe  in  Tolstoy," 
Cuthbert  said  aggressively.  "  No  genuine  Socialists 
can  believe  in  him." 

"  We  don't  follow  Tolstoy,"  amended  Lazarus. 
"  We  beUeve  in  him — yes.  He  is  the  sincerest  soul 
in  Russia,  in  the  world,  to-day." 

"  Living  a  compromise,"  sneered  Cuthbert. 

The  smile  left  Lazarus  Samson's  face  abruptly — 
left  all  our  faces. 

'*  Mother,  play  us  something — leave  the  door 
open,"  said  Lucian. 


"  Uncle  Lew,"  said  I,  "  do  you  think  I  ought  to 
join  the  party?  "  He  and  Lucian  and  I  were  hnger- 
ing  over  the  study  fire.  The  others  had  wandered  out 
to  the  music. 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  i6l 

"  If  you  think  you  ought,  I  do." 

We  all  three  smiled. 

*'  Do  you  think  I'm  a  moral  snob?  "  I  tried  again. 

"  I  do,"  said  Lucian.  "  Why  should  you  stay  out 
because  some  of  them  are  living  with  other  men's 
wives,  any  more  than  you  would  stay  out  of  the 
Church  because  there  are  divorced  men  paying  pew 
rent?  " 

"  It  isn't  individual  morals — at  least — I  suppose 
it  ought  not  to  be — but  collective  morals " 

"As  how?  "  said  Uncle  Lew,  but  I  saw  that  he 
understood. 

"Graft?"  queried  Lucian;  "I  don't  believe  it. 
Not  in  a  disinterested  organisation  like  ours.  Not 
in  our  local,  anyway." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  election  returns." 

"  But  that's  too  silly,  Clara.  It  wouldn't  pay  to 
try  to  stuff.  We  couldn't  if  we  tried;  we  haven't 
pull  enough." 

"  I  didn't  mean  just  that.  But  suppose — in  a 
minor  election — I'm  only  supposing  it,  of  course " 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  Uncle  Lew. 

"  Suppose  we  didn't  have  any  chance  of  putting  in 
our  candidate — and  we  didn't  have  the  incentive  to 
make  the  vote  a  census,  as  we  do  in  presidential 
elections " 

Lucian  and  Uncle  Lew  exchanged  glances. 

"  And  suppose  it  was  to  our  advantage — from 
the  point  of  view  of  class-conscious,  revolutionary 
Socialism — as  long  as  we  couldn't  get  in  ourselves — 
to  see  that  the  rottenest  of  the  other  municipal 
parties,  or  candidates,  did  get  in — all  for  the  sake 
of  educating  the  public,  of  course,  and  of  fostering 

L 


i62  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

that  discontent  with  the  present  regime,  which  is  one 
of  our  weapons.  And  suppose  our  local — I  say  our, 
but  it's  purely  hypothetical " 

"  Of  course,"  reiterated  Uncle  Lew. 

"  Suppose  our  local  fixed  it  up  with  the  rotten 
party  to  dehver  our  vote  over  to  them — for  a  con- 
sideration  " 

"  But  they  couldn't,  you  know,  without  taking  a 
vote  on  it  in  the  local,  and  there  would  be  protests." 
This  from  Lucian. 

"  And  if  there  were  not  enough  protests?  " 

"  Well,  it  couldn't  touch  you,  anyway,"  Lucian 
veered.  "  We  don't  have  woman  suffrage  in  this 
state."    He  laughed  shamefacedly. 

"I'm  not  quite  so  feminine  as  to  be  satisfied  with 
that  point  of  view — thank  you." 

"  But  inside  the  local,"  Lucian  added,  "  you  would 
have  a  vote.  You  could  register  a  protest  there, 
Clara." 

"Don't  teU  me  what  I  could  do!"  I  flashed. 
"  That's  not  my  point.  My  point  is  that  those  are 
vile,  rotten,  abominable  tactics.  If  I  were  a  man 
I'd  use  a  stronger  word." 

"  Give  it  to  us.  Red  Head!  I  thought  you'd  fire 
up  before  long,"  said  Uncle  Lew.  "You're  right! 
You're  dead  right! — They're  damnable — if  they're 
true.     But  who  says  they're  true?  " 

I  suppose  I  looked  conscious. 

"Tristram  Lawrence!"  exclaimed  Lucian  scorn- 
fully. "  Accusations  of  that  sort  always  originate 
with  that  sort  of  moralist." 

"  There  must  be  some  fire  where  there  is  smoke," 
I  retorted;   "people  don't  invent  such  things." 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  163 

Lucian  kicked  the  andirons  moodily. 

"  We  have  our  faults,"  acknowledged  Uncle  Lew; 
"  we're  violent.  We  might  shoot  and  bum  if  we  got 
too  heady,  I  suppose.  But — treachery — Jesuitism — 
well — I've  knocked  about  in  party  locals  a  good 
deal  and  I  haven't  struck  just  that.  And  even  if 
your  informant  " — Uncle  Lew  grinned  suavely — "  is 
right  about  it;  do  you  choke  off  such  tactics  by 
staying  outside?  " 

"  Do  you  choke  them  off  by  staying  in?  " 

"  A  five-cent  yeast-cake,"  mused  Uncle  Lew. 
"  But  then  you  and  I  believe  in   miracles,  Clara." 

"  Still,  it  is  war,"  pursued  Lucian.  "I'm  not 
sure  that  they  are  worse  than  any  other  war 
measures — granted  war." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  fair  fight,"  I  protested. 

'*  Never!  "  said  Lucian. 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  refusing  to  be  the  one 
to  take  the  unfair  advantage." 

"  We're  in  to  win." 

"  But  if  you're  an  economic  determinist  you 
think  you'll  win  anyway.  As  for  me,  I'm  every  bit 
as  convinced  of  economic  determinism  as — as  Cuth- 
bert,  for  that  matter.  I  don't  think — I  know  we'll 
win.  The  question  is,  do  we  hasten  or  hinder  the 
victory  by  Jesuitical,  dishonourable  methods?  I 
think  we  hinder.     That's  my  Christianity,  of  course." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  think  our  local — I 
don't  know  about  others — ever  has  tried  just  those 
particular  tactics  that  you  describe,"  Lucian  re- 
marked. 

"  There's  an  election  for  mayor  coming  off  in 
December,"  said  I. 


i64  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Again  those  two  exchanged  glances. 

"  What  it  is  to  have  a  suspicious  nature/*  teased 
Lucian. 

"  Helen  says  the  Citizens'  Reform  League  is  talking 
of  putting  up  Tristram  Lawrence."  I  knew  this 
woiild  irritate  him. 

"  So  I  hear,"  he  returned.  "  They  have  just 
about  as  much  sense  as  I  gave  them  credit  for.  A 
man  of  letters! — A  school  teacher!  " 

"  There  are  Bryce,  Morley,  Jusserand,"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes; — I  suppose  you  do  put  Trissy  in  the  same 
class,"  he  commented  bitterly. 

I  resented  his  emphasis  on  the  pronoun.  **  It 
Tristram  does  get  in,  it  will  be  on  a  clean  ballot,"  I 
declared. 

"  Glad  you  think  so — but  he  won't  get  in."  He 
flung  the  words  at  me  over  his  shoulder  and  collided 
in  the  doorway  with  Helen. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  it's  about  time  you  started. 
Candeloro  has  telephoned  from  the  farmhouse  that 
the  Young  Leonardos  have  let  the  kite  paste  boil  all 
over  the  top  of  the  stove,  and  Tonio  BerchieUi  has 
decorated  the  kitchen  floor  with  charcoal  sketches." 

"  Oh,  chide  me  not! — I  go!  "  cried  Lucian. 

But  Uncle  Lew  caught  him  and  drew  him  back 
into  the  room,  with — "  Hold  on!  That's  my  funeral! 
I  promised  Cyrus.  He  arranged  it  with  me  before 
he  went.     I  can  manage  the  Young  Leonardos." 

Out  in  the  hall,  fishing  for  an  umbrella  in  the  con- 
fusion of  the  hat-rack,  I  said  to  Uncle  Lew — *'  I  have 
another  grudge  against  the  party. — It  uses  Lucian 
as  if  he  were  a  kitchen  knife;  here,  there,  everywhere, 
peeling  somebody's  potatoes.    He  has  an  Ode  to 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  165 

Russian  Freedom  begun  and  never  finished — a 
beautiful  thing.  He  has  a  Japanese  War  ballad  in 
his  head — such  music!  And  no  time — ^no  time — 
because  he  is  kept  buzzing  from  one  committee  to 
the  next,  and  pestered  with  comrades.  But  what  do 
they  care  for  poetry!  " 

"  Fm  afraid  it's  my  fault,'*  sighed  Uncle  Lew. 
"  And  now  I've  got  him  into  this  paper  scheme." 

"Oh,  that  is  better  than  most,"  I  comforted  him. 
"  At  least  there's  a  semblance  of  literature  about  it." 

"  Not  much." 

We  went  out  on  the  wet  verandah.  Uncle  Lew 
rammed  a  hat  on  his  head  and  struggled  with  the 
catch  of  the  umbrella. 

"  Is  nothing  worth  while  but  the  multiplication  of 
locals?  "  I  cried.  "  Have  we  really  no  use  for  poets, 
nowadays?  " 

"  Go  in  out  of  the  wet,  Clara,"  said  Uncle  Lew; 
and  suddenly  —  "We  need  a  poet  in  the  party,  if 
only  to  fight  against  dirty  methods.  You  know, 
don't  you,  that  your  poet  would  fight  against  that 
kind  of  dirt  just  as  quick  and  just  as  everlastingly 
as  your  Reform  candidate?  " 

"  He's  not  my  Reform  candidate." 

"  No  ?  "  Uncle  Lew  looked  back  at  me  as  he  went 
down  the  verandah  steps.  The  old  hat  hid  his  eyes, 
but  the  light  from  the  living-room  shone  on  his 
whimsical  mouth.  "I  do  like  to  see  the  natural 
woman  in  you  come  out,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  when  I  lose  my  temper?  "  I  called 
after  him. 

"  No,  not  altogether." 


i66  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


VI 

When  I  went  back  to  the  library,  Lucian  was 
drooping  over  the  fire  in  a  weary  sort  of  way,  unusual 
with  him,  turning  the  leaves  of  Moody's  Fire  Bringer. 
The  sad  quietness  of  his  face  gave  me  that  sort  of 
helpless  pang  we  call  heart-ache. 

"  Lucian,  you  don't  want  to  go  into  it,"  I  said. 
"Why  wiUyou?" 

At  my  first  word  his  resolute  chin  went  up,  his 
indomitable  eyes  turned  to  mine  defensively  and 
cheerfully. 

''Oh,  but  I  do!  You're  mistaken.  What  makes 
you  think  I  don't?  " 

I  touched  the  book  in  his  hand. 

"Why,  yes!  I  want  both,"  he  assented.  "But 
I've  an  intuition  that  if  I  stepped  out  of  the  fight  my 
verse  would  go  rotten." 

"  And  staying  in — it  doesn't  go  at  all." 

"  I  have  to  do  the  thing  that  seems  to  me  most 
worth  while,"  he  insisted. 

"  But,  Lucian,  which  does  seem  to  you  the  most 
worth  while?  " 

He  laughed.  "  Why  do  you  ask?  Am  I  not  the 
editor  of  The  Torch?  " 

"  You  are  afraid  to  choose  the  other  because  you 
want  it  most ;  because  you  love  it  best ;  because  you 
would  rather  write  a  Hymn  to  Russian  Freedom 
than  edit  The  Torch.  It  is  fooUsh  to  make  that  kind 
of  choice." 

"  No,  no!— I  wouldn't.  At  least,  I  don't  think  1 
would. — I  don't  know. — How  can  I  know,  Clara? 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  167 

And  even  if  I  did  know — one  doesn't  choose  to  do  a 
thing  because  one  Hkes  it  best.  I  do  know  that  while 
the  fight  is  on  I  can't  stay  out.  It  isn't  as  if  I  didn't 
like  to  fight.  I'm  a  bully  fighter,  and  you  know  it. 
One  can't  fight  as  well  as  I  do  and  not  like  it." 

"  One  doesn't  choose  to  do  a  thing  merely  because 
one  likes  it;  no,"  I  agreed.  "  But  if  a  poem,  if  a 
poet,  might  convert  the  world  to  a  purer,  saner, 
swifter  Socialism  than  these  mechanical  party 
methods  can?  " 

"  Will  they  be  the  less  mechanical  if  I  don't  have  a 
hand  in  them?  You  are  unjust  to  the  party,  Clara; 
impatient  of  it.  That's  where  your  class  animus 
comes  out,  and  it  surprises  me.  Besides — how  do  I 
know  I  could  be  The  Poet?  " 

"  The  party  does  not  give  you  a  chance  to  find 
out." 

"  The  chance  is  mine  to  take.  The  trouble  is,  I 
want  two  chances.  I  want  to  live  two  lives  in  one — 
and  I'm  not  big  enough." 

*'  Yes,  you  are!  " 

"  But,  Clara,  that's  what  you've  been  insisting 
upon.  You  want  me  to  give  one  up.  And  I  can't 
give  up  either."  He  went  to  the  book-shelves  and 
thrust  the  Fire  Bringer  back  into  its  place.  "  Every 
morning  I  think  I  have.  But  at  night  I  find  they're 
both  there." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  because  you  try  to  give  up  the  one 
you  are  meant  to  keep." 

"Oh,  don't  play  devil's  advocate!"  he  cried. 
"  What  does  it  matter  what  happens  to  my  literary 
vanity,  if  this  vile  economic  system  can  be  cast  out 
on  the  dust-heap  and  superseded  by  collectivism  and 


i68  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

brotherly  love  ?    One  poet  more  or  less  won't  matter 
when  all  the  world  swings  in  tune.** 

"Don't  call  me  a  devil's  advocate!"  I  pleaded. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  be  that.  If  only  you  wouldn't 
think  the  party  and  its  methods  the  only  way." 

"  As  if  I  did!  "  he  protested.  "  Am  I  Cuthbert? 
But  you  have  this  illogical  prejudice  against  the 
party " 

''No,  I  haven't; — you  don't  imderstand.  I  can't 
bear  being  outside.  But  I  am  afraid  of  myself.  This 
is  a  serious  step.  I  can't  take  it  simply  because  you 
and  Uncle  Lew  have;  no  matter  how  much  I  may 
want  to.  If  you  and  he  were  not  already  in  the 
party  I  should  find  it  much  easier  to  decide  whether 
I  really  do  want  to  abolish  the  senate." 

He  laughed  at 'that.  ''  One  can't  take  the  senate 
seriously,"  he  said.  "  Its  aboUtion  is  only  one  of  the 
many  steps  toward  reconstruction.  That's  the  way 
I  look  at  it.     What's  the  matter,  Helen?  " 

For  again  Helen  was  looking  in  at  the  door. 

"  Uncle  Lew  can't  sleep  in  both  the  kitchen  and 
the  sitting-room  of  the  farmhouse  at  the  same  time," 
she  remarked,  "  and  Cuthbert,  for  all  his  Marxian 
bluster,  doesn't  seem  to  want  the  proletariat  for  a 
bed-fellow." 

"  I'm  going  over,"  Lucian  said.  "  Good  night. 
Clara  and  I  got  to  talking." 

"  About  our  consciences,"  I  added,  as  he  dis- 
appeared. 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  Helen  observed.  "It's  a 
family  characteristic,  and  seems  to  be  catching: 
Bertha  Aarons  and  Lazarus  Samson  are  out  on  the 
verandah  in  all  this  wet  discussing  their  consciences. 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  169 

You  know,  she  has  scruples  against  the  marriage 
ceremony." 

"  But  so  has  he.  Helen,  we  must  be  careful.  It 
would  be  dreadful  if  anything  happened  here." 

"My  dear,  don't  be  alarmed!  Lazarus  is  really 
in  love  with  that  girl,  and  love  is  a  safe,  bourgeois 
emotion.  In  Russia  he  might  take  her  at  her  word, 
but  here  in  America  he  won't  sacrifice  her  to  a  theory. 
He  is  unselfish  under  that  nickel-plate  finish.  If  it 
were  Cuthbert  I  should  be  out  there  on  the  verandah 
with  them.  But  Cuthbert  looks  higher  than  the 
proletariat  for  his  soul's  mate.  He  is  hanging  round 
the  living-room  now,  waiting  for  me  to  come  out  of 
here  so  he  can  come  in." 

"Don't  go!"  I  said  hastily. 

So  she  took  Lucian's  chair  by  the  fire,  and  we  must 
have  sat  there  together  nearly  an  hour,  silent,  watch- 
ing the  blaze  bum  itself  out. 

In  my  diary  I  find  written  under  July  7th  of  that 
year — "  To-day  we  rekindled  Uncle  Lew's  Torch.  It 
sputtered  a  good  deal."    And  in  a  new  paragraph: — 

"  How  would  it  feel,  I  wonder,  to  have  a  heart  big 
enough  to  ache  over  something  not  purely  personal? 
I  wish  I  knew  how  it  felt  to  be  really  great.  Not 
in  achievement  necessarily.  Greatness  does  not 
seem  to  be  indispensable  to  achievement.  The  small 
people,  the  limited  people,  the  narrow  people — ^like 
Napoleon — get  results.  Tolstoy  doesn't  get  any. 
Nor  St.  Francis.  Did  he,  though?  Where  are  they? 
Napoleon  made  a  new  map  of  Europe.  Something 
definite,  that,  if  superficial.  I  wish  I  knew  how  it 
felt  to  desire  the  Co-operative  Commonwealth  so 
passionately  that  I  did  not  have  to  stop  to  think 
whether  or  not  I  was  true  to  myself  in  joining  the 


170  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Socialist  Party.  The  really  great  never  need  to 
question  their  own  motives;  they  are  not  aware  of 
greater  and  lesser  desires;  they  are  the  one  desire. 
I  wish  I  knew  how  it  felt  to  merge  the  individual — 
the  individuals — in  the  idea ;  so  that  my  heart  might 
ache  for  every  other  hampered,  strangled  poet  in 
this  hindering,  strangUng  economic  system  as  it  aches 
for  Lucian.  I  wish  I  knew  whether,  if  I  had  a  vote, 
I  would  vote  for  Tristram  Lawrence  and  the  Reform 
Party  who  have  a  chance  to  win  and  clean  things 
up  a  bit;  or  whether  I  would  vote  for  some  scrub 
candidate  in  the  SociaUst  Party,  put  up  just  to  split 
the  vote  and  give  the  city  another  educational  dose 
of  machine  corruption.  I  am  not  an  opportunist. 
Am  I  ?  But  it  isn't  as  simple  to  me  as  it  is  to  Lucian. 
If  the  Socialists  would  support  Reform,  why  mightn't 
they  convert  Reform  ?  Most  of  these  Reformers  are 
more  than  half-way  Socialists  as  it  is." 

Something  Hke  this  I  must  have  been  thinking  as 
we  sat  by  the  fire,  for  my  conversation  with  Helen 
follows  on  the  next  page  of  the  little  book. 

"  If  you  had  a  vote  in  the  next  election,  how  would 
you  use  it?  "  I  remember  I  asked  her. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  She  came  out  of  her  own 
thoughts  absently. 

"  How  far  away  you  were,  Helen,"  I  said. 

*'  In  the  Never-Never  Land."  She  leaned  over  to 
adjust  a  burning  log.  "  How  would  I  vote?  It 
would  depend  upon  the  issue  involved." 

"  Issues,  men,  principles,"  I  mused.  "  But 
shouldn't  principles  carry  most  weight?  Doesn't 
every  other  way  involve  compromise?  " 

"  Not  if  one  makes  a  principle  of  the  issues."  Her 
eyes  quizzed  me. 


LIGHTING  THE  TORCH  171 

"  Helen,  that  seems  to  me  specious." 

"  It  may  be,"  she  admitted  with  tantalising 
indifference. 

"  Cyrus  won't  vote  at  all?  "  I  suggested. 

To  this  she  made  no  reply. 

"  You  say  it  would  depend  upon  the  issues — you 
mean  as  they  would  affect  democracy?  " 

"  I  never  talk  in  ultimates,  you  know,"  she  fenced. 
"  And  if  you  are  worrying  over  your  hypothetical 
vote  because  you  are  afraid  you  might  vote  for 
Tristram  Lawrence  against  your  principles — why — 
let  me  tell  you  right  now,  Clara,  that  you  are  not  in 
love  with  Tristram  Lawrence.  You  play  with  the 
thought  of  being — but  you're  not." 

"  You  seem  to  know  all  about  being  in  love!  "  I 
retorted  angrily. 

vShe  knelt  down  on  the  hearth  and  began  to  take 
off  the  half-burned  wood  and  set  it  apart  where  it 
could  cool  away  from  the  back  log.  "  It's  nearly 
twelve  o'clock,  did  you  know  it?  "  she  said. 

When  she  had  made  the  fire  safe  for  the  night,  she 
still  knelt  there.  Something  in  her  passive  stillness 
choked  me,  and  I  leaned  down  and  put  my  arm 
around  her  neck  remorsefully. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  the  Never-Never 
Land?  "  I  asked.  "  Buying  new  winter  coats  for  all 
your  settlement  children?  " 

"No;  I  was  mothering  my  own  children,"  she 
said.     "  The  children  that  I  shall  never  have." 

"Oh,  Helen,"  I  pleaded,  "  how  do  you  know  it 
is  never?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  that  you  are  you  and  I  am  I?  " 
Her  eyes  were  turned  away  from  mine  toward  the 
fire.     "  I  know." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   SMOKING   FUSE 


One  evening  in  September  Tristram  Lawrence  came 
to  see  me. 

"  Really  at  home?  "  he  said,  his  eyes  indulgent  and 
playful. 

I  did  not  tell  him  that  the  maid  had  found  me 
putting  on  my  hat  when  she  brought  his  card. 

"  It  is  good  to  find  you  for  once  where  you  belong," 
he  added,  relinquishing  my  hand  in  that  reluctant 
way  he  has. 

"Belong!"  I  echoed  blankly,  looking  about  the 
Italianate  drawing-room  of  my  Cousin  Pauline's 
apartment.     "  Do  I  seem  to  you  to  belong  here?  " 

"  In  one  sense,  no,  of  course."  He  paused.  "  To 
every  bird  its  own  nest."  His  eyes  looked  beyond 
me  a  moment,  as  if  they  saw — a  nest.  Then  they 
dipped  into  my  own  eyes  again. 

Last  year  he  had  been  very  attentive  to  a  Miss 
Warner,  whose  grandfather  was  one  of  the  trustees 
of  our  estate.  The  year  before  there  was  a  rumour 
of  his  engagement  to  Daisy  Randall — who  had  since 
married  Nicholas  Richards — her  father  was  some- 
thing highly  financial.  Before  that — had  there  been 
a  rich  young  widow? — There  had  always  been  some 
one  with  money.    And  now? 

172 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  173 

"  But  you  can  hardly  blame  me  for  liking  this 
better  than  a  comer  of  the  settlement  parlour,"  he 
was  saying,  **  when  I  have  come  to  tell  you  something 
that  means  a  great  deal  to  me — to  tell  you  first  of  all." 

It  seemed  to  me  I  ought  to  have  outgrown  the 
possibiUty  of  being  flattered  by  this  kind  of  obvious 
remark.    But  I  hadn't.     Still — 

"  I  suppose  the  newspapers  don't  count,"  I  said. 

"  Already!  "  he  laughed.  "  I  didn't  give  my  final 
consent  till  this  afternoon." 

"  I  heard  in  the  summer  that  they  wanted  you." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  the  floor, 
forgetful  of  me,  for  the  moment.  "  I  didn't  make 
up  my  mind  in  a  hurry,"  he  said.  "  And  yet  I 
wonder  even  now  if  I  haven't  been  an  ass." 

I  inadvertently  let  the  moment  for  reassuring  him 
slip.  He  was  no  stouter  than  he  used  to  be,  but  he 
showed  his  forty  years  in  a  certain  dryness  of  fibre. 
The  pale  brown  hair  was  ashier,  the  thin  cheeks 
sUghtly  leathern  in  texture.  The  scholar's  face  was 
still  there,  but  the  set  of  his  chin  against  his  collar, 
the  concentrated  look  in  his  eyes,  or  more  accurately 
his  eyebrows,  hinted  at  an  executive  capacity  which 
made  one  understand  why  the  Citizens'  Reform 
League  had  offered  him  the  nomination. 

"Oh,  no!"  I  deprecated,  remembering  suddenly 
that  he  had  wondered  if  he  were  an  ass. 

"  All  roads  seem  to  lead  to  it,  nowadays,"  he 
mused.  "  Action — action.  We  all  get  bitten.  It 
is  no  longer  possible  to  live  consistently  within  the 
province  of  ideas.  I  have  tried.  I  do  not  care  to 
be  that  inferior  thing,  the  man  of  action; — at  least" 
— ^he  hesitated — "  I  still  feel  that  it  is  inferior." 


174  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  But  you  are  ashamed  of  that  feeling,"  said  I. 

He  looked  up  and  smiled.  "  There  was  once  a 
little  girl  with  a  lucid  mind,"  he  said.  "  And  she 
grew  up,  she  and  her  mind."  His  chair  was  rather 
near,  and  he  leaned  nearer.  "  Do  you  know  the 
thing  that  reassures  me  most  in  taking  this  step.  Miss 
Clara?  It  is  the  consciousness  that  you  will  approve. 
— You  do  approve  ? — If  I  get  in,  shall  you — be  glad  ? 
—ShaUyou?" 

The  trite  words  would  have  been  pleasant  to 
any  woman.  He  was  a  successful  man  of  letters. 
Nevertheless — 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  you  will  get  in,"  I  said. 
And  just  then  Cyrus  spoke  in  the  doorway: — 

*'  Good  evening,"  he  remarked  casually  to  Tristram; 
and  then  to  me — "  You're  coming  down  to  the  settle- 
ment, Clara?     Helen  has  just  telephoned." 

Unintentional  rudeness  is  not  possible  in  some 
people.  I  knew  that  Cyrus  had  his  reasons,  but  it 
was  a  bit  annoying. 

"  No,  she  is  not  coming  this  evening,"  returned 
Tristram  genially.  "  I  have  come  to  call,  and  I 
mean  to  stay.  This  is  my  last  free  evening  until 
after  the  elections."  His  cool,  amused  eyes  dis- 
missed Cyrus,  who,  however,  remained  in  the  door- 
way, and  merely  said: — 

"  This  strike  is  going  to  be  a  factor  in  the  election." 

"  You  mean  these  garment  workers?  "  Tristram's 
attention  was  languid,  but  he  did  attend. 

Cyrus  nodded. 

"  A  handful  of  women?  " 

"  The  men  have  begun  to  come  out.  And  women 
have  other  means  of  influencing  elections,  lacking 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  175 

the  ballot/*  C5n:us's  laconic  utterance  was  entirely 
unemotional. 

Tristram  rested  a  hand  on  each  knee,  as  if  he 
meditated  getting  to  his  feet.  "  I  had  not  attached 
any  importance  to  it  whatever,"  he  said.  "  Of 
course,  I  knew  there  was  a  strike — yesterday?  " 

"  Day  before." 

*'  It  began  with  ten  girls;  only  two  over  eighteen," 
I  explained. 

"  To-night  there  are  three  hundred  out,"  said 
Cyrus. 

Tristram  studied  him  with  a  sort  of  unwilling 
curiosity.  "  I  am  told,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have  your 
finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  working  people  in  this 
town." 

"  The  poor  prefer  a  quack,"  Cyrus  admitted. 

**  A  quack,  Cyrus!"  It  was  I  who  made  the 
protest. 

*'  Oh,  I'm  in  very  good  company,"  he  replied. 
"  Christ  was  a  quack.  At  least  the  regular  schools 
refused  to  countenance  his  methods  of  healing. — 
Not  that  I  heal  anything,"  he  added.  "  Not  that  I 
have  any  methods." 

"  And  just  how  do  you  think  this  strike  will  affect 
the  election?  "  Tristram  asked. 

"  For  one  thing,  by  its  staying  quality." 

"  Two  months?  " 

'*  For  another  thing,  by  its  spreading  quality." 

*' Chiefly  women? — And  foreigners  who  have  no 
vote?  " 

"  Chiefly  women — ^yes.  But  you  like  to  play  the 
squire  of  dames.    Here's  your  chance." 

A  smile  flickered — winced  were  a  better  word. 


176  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

perhaps — on  Tristram's  delicate  lips.  "  You  mean — 
make  it  an  issue?  "  he  questioned. 

"  You'll  have  to  before  you're  through." 

''What  is  it  at  your  settlement  to-night? — A 
strike  meeting?  "  Tristram  absently  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  with  a  certain  abruptness  sat  down  again. 

"  Why  don't  we  all  three  go?  "  I  suggested. 

He  looked  from  me  to  Cyrus.  "  I  suspect  this  is 
a  put-up  job,"  he  objected.  His  face  was  both 
amused  and  rueful.  "  My  one  free  evening — Oh, 
Miss  Clara! — But  of  course,  if  you'd  rather " 

**  So  would  you — now,"  I  retorted,  and  went  to 
put  on  my  hat. 

When  I  came  back  they  were  standing  before  a 
marble  low  reUef  of  me  that  one  of  Cyrus's  hungry 
Italians  had  done. 

"  But  one  needs  the  colour,"  Tristram  said,  turning 
to  me.  "  Titian  would  have  enjoyed  painting  you, 
Miss  Clara." 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  observed  Cyrus,  his  back  to  us 
as  he  mused  upon  the  bas-rehef.  "  Watts  would 
understand  her  better."  He  put  out  a  finger  and 
touched  the  marble  brow  gently.  "  This  fellow  was 
too  young,"  he  said,  "  but  he  needed  the  money.  I 
knew  he  couldn't  put  the  thinking  spirit  in  here." 
The  caressing  fingers  hovered,  hesitated. 

"  I'm  ready,  Cyrus,"  I  reminded  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'U  catch  up." 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  177 


II 

Along  the  River  Way  there  were  crowds  of  people 
walking  with  autumn  briskness.  On  the  other 
shore  and  from  the  long  low  bridges  the  silver 
sparkles  streamed  down  through  the  lightly  ruffled 
water.  Tristram  talked  of  the  new  civic  pride,  the 
new  enthusiasm  for  urban  beauty,  the  new  schemes 
for  municipal  architecture,  the  gropings  of  the  Park 
Commission,  the  crusade  against  the  electric  signs 
that  intermittently  starred  our  heaven. 

"  A  fair  outside,"  said  Cyrus.  I  had  thought  he 
was  not  listening.  Tristram  glanced  sidewise  at  him 
with  an  amused  smile. 

"  We  had  a  questionnaire  the  other  night  in  our 
Circolo  del  Mondo  Nuovo,"  Cyrus  added,  "  on  how 
to  improve  the  Italian  quarter.  It  might  give  you 
points." 

"What  do  they  want?" 

"  Relief  from  the  white  slave  traffic." 

At  the  end  of  the  River  Way  we  struck  across  into 
the  city,  through  a  garish  zone  of  moving-picture 
shows.  It  seemed  as  if  Cyrus  took  off  his  hat  to 
every  other  man  or  woman  we  met.  The  streets 
were  unusually  crowded,  but  we  were  all  three  taller 
than  the  average,  and  other  faces  had  a  way  of 
seeking  his  face. 

"  Apparently  you  have  some  personal  connection 
with  each  one  of  them,"  said  Tristram  presently, 
leaning  out  and  eyeing  him  across  me. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Cyrus. 

M 


178  THE  CHILDREK  OF  LIGHT 

*'  And  I  suppose  you  could  call  each  one  by 
name?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course." 

Sometimes  we  had  to  elbow  our  way.  Girls  that  I 
knew  smiled  at  me.  One  said — "  Our  shop  come  out 
this  afternoon.  Miss  Emery."  And  another,  farther 
on,  called  back — "  I'll  be  to  the  meeting  all  right,  all 
right.  I'm  just  laying  for  a  bunch  of  finishers  that 
haven't  joined  yet." 

Three  or  four  young  ItaUan  men  jostled  Tristram; 
then  meeting  Cyrus's  eyes,  burst  into  a  hatless, 
joyous  chorus  of  buona  seras. 

A  sleek,  heavy-looking  man,  loudly  dressed  in  black, 
sUghtly  oleaginous,  watched  us  from  the  doorway  of 
a  saloon  restaurant.  He  seemed  especially  interested 
in  Tristram.  When  we  came  abreast  of  him  he 
touched  his  hat  to  Cyrus  and  said  kindly : — 

"  I  bailed  out  an  Eyetalian  of  yours  to-day,  Mr. 
Emery — Giuseppe  Monterone." 

''That  so?  He'll  be  your  friend  for  life,"  Cyrus 
said  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Yep;  good  job,"  the  man  agreed,  and  his  some- 
what throaty  and  complacent  laugh  foUowed  us. 

"  Who  is  the  philanthropist?  "  inquired  Tristram. 

"  The  boss  of  the  settlement  ward." 

"That  man?  "  Tristram  palpably  controlled  an 
impulse  to  look  back.  "  Well,  he  and  I  have  both 
missed  an  opportunity.'* 

"  He  didn't  miss  anything,"  said  I,  laughing. 
"  He  knew  you." 

We  had  left  the  winking  ghtter  of  the  avenue  and 
were  making  our  way  through  the  darker,  dirtier 
streets  in  the  vicinity  of  the  settlement.    Wavering 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  179 

gas  torches  sputtered  and  sizzled  above  the  push- 
carts. The  human  stream  thickened  and  moved  more 
sluggishly.  Now  and  again  an  eddy  of  little  children 
swirled  about  our  feet.  Here  and  there,  in  angles 
and  corners,  clusters  of  men  and  women  stood  still, 
like  backwater,  murmuring.  Through  open  door- 
ways the  tenements  breathed  out  their  close,  rank 
stench  upon  this  flood.  A  muddy-mouthed,  dark- 
eyed  little  child  took  Cyrus's  hand  and  walked  beside 
us  the  length  of  the  block,  looking  up  into  his  face  and 
smiling.  A  woman,  leaning  out  of  an  upper  window, 
called  down  some  sort  of  unintelligible  Italian  bless- 
ing upon  his  head. 

"  These  are  the  ones  who  will  turn  me  down,  J 
suppose,"  Tristram  speculated. 

"  All  who  have  a  vote  will  turn  you  down;  yes," 
agreed  Cyrus. 

We  picked  our  way  over  a  slimy  street-crossing, 
and  at  the  other  side  Tristram  exclaimed  unex- 
pectedly—  "Cyrus,  I'm  beginning  to  think  you 
ought  to  be  the  Reform  candidate.  You  could 
carry  this  thing  through." 

"If  I  accepted  the  Reform  platform — yes,  per- 
haps." This  frank  recognition  of  his  own  power 
and  equally  genuine  indifference  to  it  were  a  part  of 
Cyrus's  charm. 

"What's  wrong  with  the  platform?"  asked 
Tristram, 

"  Its  assumptions." 

Surprised,  I  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  held 
my  tongue. 

"  Assumptions?  "  queried  Tristram. 

"  That  the  system,  political  and  industrial,  is  all 


i8o  THE  CHILDRElsI  OF  LIGHT 

right  as  it  stands.  That  all  you  need  is  good  men  to 
run  it.     How  many  good  men  has  it  swamped?  " 

"  Cyrus!  "  I  cried  expectantly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  said  to  me,  a  hopeless,  wistful  sort 
of  smile  in  his  eyes,  "  I  haven't  come  round  to 
Socialism  either;  that  doesn't  follow.  Socialism 
puts  the  cart  before  the  horse,  you  know.  You'll 
have  to  get  your  perfect  man  before  you  achieve  your 
perfect  system.    It  is  the  heart  that  must  be  changed." 

"I  sighed;  but  Tristram  laughed  and  said  — 
"  Don't  you  see  you're  going  round  in  a  circle?  " 

*'  Saying  one  minute  that  I  won't  stand  for  the 
present  system  because  it  destroys  the  good  man — 
and  the  next  minute  that  I  won't  stand  for  Socialism 
because  the  bad  man  would  destroy  it?  Oh,  yes, 
I  see.  But  there's  a  loophole.  We  might  first  catch 
our  good  man,  and  then  give  him  carte  blanche  to 
change  the  system." 

"  But  the  system  makes  the  man,"  I  protested. 
"  And  the  competitive  system  is  making  him  a 
Socialist;  and  he  again  is  making  Socialism;  and 
out  of  Socialism  shall  come  a  still  better  man,  and 
so  on." 

"  God  makes  the  man,"  said  Cyrus,  with  his  gentle 
but  inflexible  obstinacy. 

"  Come,  come,  children,  you  mustn't  quarrel  on  the 
street,"  laughed  Tristram.  "It  all  depends  upon 
which  came  first — man  or  the  system.  Who  can 
teU?  " 

"  God  came  first,  Clara;  we  agree  there,"  Cyrus 
pleaded. 

"  But  God  may  be  the  system,"  I  suggested.  And 
Tristram  laughed  aloud. 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  i8i 

"  What  is  your  nostrum  for  making  a  good  man  ?  " 
he  asked  Cyrus,  after  a  moment. 

And  Cyrus  said — "  Repentance.*' 

"To  be  followed  by  that  course  in  spiritual 
gymnastics  entitled  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount?  " 

"  Exactly.'*  Nothing  could  have  been  drier  than 
Cyrus's  tone. 

The  group  of  settlement  buildings  loomed  at  the 
end  of  the  street.  The  crowd  was  all  going  our  way 
now,  quietly,  swiftly. 

"  And  how  will  you  get  them  to  take  their  dose?  " 
Tristram  continued  lightly. 

"  By  prayer,"  said  Cyrus.  "  Yours  and  mine." 
And  he  looked  across  me  into  Tristram's  face.  And 
Tristram  did  not  laugh  again. 

Ill 

Cyrus  had  a  key  to  the  gate  of  the  men's  quad  and 
we  slipped  in  there,  leaving  the  crowd  to  go  round  to 
the  gymnasium  door.  This  is  the  new  part  of  the 
settlement,  the  part  that  Nicholas  Richards  designed, 
and  we  are  all  rather  foolishly  proud  of  it.  The  arts- 
and-crafts  shops,  the  boys'  club  house,  the  dispensary, 
the  music  school,  and  the  rooms  of  the  men  residents, 
look  out  on  the  quadrangle.  At  the  top  of  the  dis- 
pensary there  is  a  loggia  where  occasional  tubercular 
patients  sleep  out  while  arrangements  are  being  made 
to  send  them  to  the  tuberculosis  camp;  and  there 
is  a  roof  garden  for  open-air  concerts  above  the 
music  school.  In  summer  the  lace-makers  and 
spinners  sit  in  the  shady  cloister  that  opens  on  three 
sides  of  the  court.    As  we  made  our  way  past  the 


i82  THE  CHILDREN'  OF  LIGHT 

weaving-room  we  could  hear  the  measured  click  and 
thrust  of  the  old  women,  taking  their  recreation  at 
their  Giottesque  looms  within.  Suddenly  a  chorus 
of  young  voices  began  to  sing  a  folk-song,  something 
barbaric  and  slow,  Polish  probably.  There  was  a 
not  unpleasant  suggestion  of  tobacco;  in  the  middle 
of  the  quad  two  of  the  men  residents  were  smoking, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  ancient  Roman  sarcophagus 
that  was  my  Cousin  Pauline's  latest  gift  to  the 
settlement. 

"  That  you,  Emery?  "  said  one  of  them.  *'  If  my 
young  deUnquents  have  begun  to  gather  inside, 
would  you  mind  singing  out?  "  He  was  the  proba- 
tion officer  in  residence,  and  as  four  or  five  of  his 
charges  were  already  standing  round  in  the  lower 
hall  of  the  boys'  house  as  we  passed  through,  Cyrus 
obligingly  went  back  to  the  court -yard  door  and 
sang  out. 

In  the  main  house,  the  old  original  settlement 
house,  now  patched  and  enlarged  beyond  recognition, 
we  caught  a  glimpse,  through  a  doorway,  of  the  head 
worker  deep  in  conference  with  two  labour  men  and 
an  officer  of  the  Women's  Trade  Union  League,  and 
were  discreetly  passing  by;  but  she  saw  us,  as  she 
sees  everything  and  every  one,  and  came  to  the  door 
to  greet  Tristram,  to  congratulate  his  party  on  his 
nomination,  and  somehow  to  convey  to  him  the  im- 
pression that  his  coming  to  the  settlement  at  this 
particular  juncture  was  what  one  had  a  right  to 
expect  from  his  penetration  and  devotion. — Yes,  we 
should  find  Helen  in  the  gymnasium. 

And  there,  at  last,  we  found  her,  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  of  pale,  foreign-looking  girls,  whose  burning 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  183 

eyes  followed  her  hungrily,  adoringly,  down  the  room 
as  she  came  to  meet  us. 

"  So  Clara  made  you  come?  "  she  said  to  Tristram. 
"  To  lend  a  hand?— Or  maybe  to  stick  in  a  finger?  " 

"  Both,"  he  retorted.  "  Dear  me,  how  you  grow, 
down  here!     I  haven't  seen  this  place." 

He  looked  around  at  the  roomy  hall,  at  the  modem 
athletic  equipment,  at  the  chattering,  shifting  groups 
of  stunted  women.  Up  in  the  running  track  around 
the  gallery,  a  slim,  dark  boy,  in  the  abbreviated 
toggery  beloved  of  sprinters,  was  training  for  some 
future  Marathon.  He  ran  lightly,  steadily,  his  lips 
firm,  his  eyes  dreaming. 

"  How  Greek  he  is!  "  exclaimed  Tristram. 

"  His  name  happens  to  be  Aristides  Philippopolis," 
Helen  answered.  "Ah,  there's  Bertha!"  and  she 
left  us  and  hurried  to  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hall,  where  Bertha  Aarons  stood,  unbuttoning  her 
jacket. 

"  She  might  be  a  general  estimating  his  strength 
before  a  battle.     Who  is  she?  "  Tristram  asked. 

And  when  I  told  him  she  was  the  girl  who  had 
precipitated  the  strike,  he  laughed  and  said : — 

"Good  guess,  wasn't  it?     I'd  like  to  meet  her." 

He  had  to  wait,  however,  for  when  we  had  made 
our  way  to  her  through  the  crowding  girls,  and  I  had 
touched  her  sleeve  to  get  her  attention,  she  said  with- 
out turning : — 

"  I  told  my  life-story  to  six  newspaper  fellows 
to-day  already.  Miss  Emery.  I  ain't  talking  to  any- 
body but  strikers  now  for  an  hour,  if  he  wants  to 
listen." 

"  This  is  delicious,"  murmured  Tristram,  and  for 


i84  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

the  better  part  of  an  hour  he  did  move  about  at  her 
elbow,  attentive,  solicitous,  yet  with  an  obedient  air 
of  not  wishing  to  hinder.  I  saw  her  give  him  a 
puzzled  glance  occasionally.  After  a  while  I  knew 
that  she  was  resisting  an  impulse  to  speak  to  him. 

"  I  give  him  up,''  said  Helen  in  my  ear.  "  No  man 
who  is  so  trivial  about  women  can  have  any  depth  of 
earnestness  about  other  things." 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  thinks  she  can  be  useful  to 
him  in  his  election,"  I  explained,  rebuke  in  my  tone. 

"Oh,  that's  why  he's  here !  "  Helen  fixed  her  eyes 
on  me.     "  Not  just  because  you  came?  " 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  I  remonstrated.  *'  Cyrus 
suggested  his  coming,  to  get  at  the  situation."  I 
looked  about  for  Cyrus,  and  saw  him  standing  with 
his  back  against  the  Swedish  bars  at  the  side  of  the 
room,  a  little  group  of  men  and  women  around  him. 
Helen  and  I  edged  near  enough  to  hear  him  explaining 
to  them  in  Italian  that  he  did  not  believe  in  war  and 
therefore  could  not  fight  with  them,  or  against  them ; 
but  that  in  every  modem  war  there  were  men  and 
women  who  followed  the  army  to  nurse  the  wounded, 
and  if  they  were  willing,  he  would  like  to  be  one  of 
these. — There  must  be  a  committee  for  raising  funds 
for  relief 

Helen  and  I  laughed  into  each  other's  eyes  tenderly, 
and  a  Russian  tailor  standing  beside  us  asked— 
"  What  does  he  say  to  them?  " 

I  translated,  and  the  man  flashed  upon  me  a  look 
of  shrewd  understanding.  "  Half  a  dozen  of  non- 
combatants  like  that,  and  how  soon  we  win  out,"  he 
said. 

"  Miss  Baldwin ! "     A  girl  was  holding  up  her  hand 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  185 

to  attract  Helen's  attention.  "  Here's  all  of  us  from 
Blum  &  Markowsky's;  we  all  come  out  to-night. 
Does  somebody  take  our  names  ?  What  is  it  we  do  ? " 
"Miss  Emery! — Miss  Baldwin!"  It  was  Bertha 
Aarons,  pushing  towards  us  with  Tristram  following 
close.  "  We  are  all  right  to  listen  now;  I  was  wait- 
ing for  the  crowd  from  Blum's.  The  Women's  Trade 
Union  League  organisers  can  get  busy  any  time." 

IV 

Helen  made  a  little  speech  of  welcome;  and  the 
man  from  the  Central  Labour  body  gave  a  brief 
exposition  of  union  principles;  and  I  told  them  how 
the  Women's  Trade  Union  League  could,  and  would, 
help  them.  Then  Bertha  Aarons  took  the  floor,  and 
the  audience  sighed  and  fluttered  expectantly. 

"  What  a  type!  "  said  Tristram  in  my  ear.  "  Like 
molten  steel  at  white  heat."  I  saw  what  he  meant; 
the  thick  pallor,  colourless,  yet  afire.  "  Oriental 
eyes,"  he  observed.  "  Curious,  isn't  it,  the  wrestle 
of  the  fatalist  with  the  enthusiast  going  on  in  eyes 
like  that?" 

There  was  a  sniff  as  of  disapproval  immediately 
behind  me,  and  turning  I  found  Cuthbert  looking 
over  my  shoulder. 

"  Let  me  walk  home  with  you,"  he  said.  "  I've 
got  some  great  news."  His  eyes  were  unusually 
bright;  he  seemed  excited;  but  Bertha  had  begun 
and  I  had  no  time  to  answer. 

"Now,  girls,"  she  cried,  "what's  it  all  about? 
Do  you  know? — What  do  we  want? — What  are  we 
making  this    kick  for?  —  Is  it  the  fines?  —  Is  it 


i86  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

the  cut  downs? — Say! — Bernheimer's  has  a  grouch 
against  their  foreman ;  is  that  why  we  are  striking  ? — 
Markowsky's  canvas  basters  used  to  be  allowed  to 
take  five  stitches  at  a  time,  but  now  they  get  fined 
if  they  take  more  than  one  stitch  at  a  time;  is  that 
why? — Is  it  because  they  make  us  buy  our  own 
needles? — Say!  Is  it  because  Giuseppina  Barboni 
makes  two-fifty  a  week  working  ten  hours  a  day  to 
pull  bastings  and  pad  lapels  of  coats? — Well,  I'll  tell 
you!  All  these  things,  they  are  why!  Yes!  But 
if  you  want  to  say  it  in  one  word,  this  is  it :  We  are 
striking  for  the  closed  shop " 

"  Sure!  — Yes!  "  cried  half  a  dozen  voices. 

"  We  are  striking  for  the  recognition  of  the  union; 
and  if  we  get  that,  we  get  everything.  Now,  that's 
what  you  got  to  remember. — You  girls  that  sews  on 
buttons,  how  do  you  feel  to-night  when  you  don't 
be  threading  your  needles  till  twelve,  one  o'clock,  to 
get  ready  for  to-morrow's  buttons? — Ain't  it  a 
holiday? — Well,  you  just  say  with  yourself — *  If  we 
get  the  closed  shop  it  will  be  Hke  this  every  night.* — 
Only  it  won't  be  a  strike — that's  the  difference. — 
If  we  get  the  closed  shop,  the  boss  can't  say  to  me 
to-day — '  You  baste  me  twenty-four  coats  a  day  for 
seven  and  a  half  cents  a  coat.'  And  then  next  week 
again — '  If  I  pay  you  seven  and  a  half  cents  for  a 
coat  you  have  to  baste  me  thirty-five  coats  a  day.' 
Oh,  my  God,  what  kind  of  a  business  is  that!  " 

There  was  a  low  groaning  throughout  the  haU. 
The  Greek  boy  in  the  gallery  had  stopped  running 
and  was  looking  down  over  the  raiUng  curiously. 
Behind  me  Cuthbert's  pencil  made  little  swift 
whistling  sounds  and  sudden  jabs  on  his  pad.     He 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  187 

was  reporting  the  strike  for  The  Torch,  nothing  else 
would  have  induced  him  to  spend  an  hour  at  the 
settlement. 

"  Do  I  blame  the  foreman  ?  "  Bertha  cried.  "  He's 
got  to  make  a  living  out  of  it  the  same  as  you  and  me, 
doesn't  he?  It's  up  to  him  to  get  the  most  work  for 
the  lowest  prices.  If  he  gets  mad  and  puts  his  fingers 
in  my  throat  to  choke  me  when  I  threaten  him  to  go 
to  the  head  of  the  firm — well — that  ain't  right;  but 
then,  he  don't  want  to  get  fired,  does  he? — And  I 
don't  blame  the  boss — not  very  much.  He's  telling 
me  the  truth  when  he  says  these  competing  firms 
will  squeeze  him  out  if  he  don't  cut  down; — he's 
teUing  some  of  the  truth.  He's  a  hog,  of  course;  he 
wants  all  what  he  can  goi)  but  he  don't  lie  when  he 
says  that  the  others  squeeze  him  if  they  can. — No; 
but  where  I  blame  is  the  system — that  keeps  the 
means  of  production  in  the  hands  of  capital,  and 
chains  the  workers  in  slavery." 

There  was  a  wild  outburst  of  applause. 

"Socialism — that's  the  talk!"  shouted  a  man's 
voice. 

"  You're  right,  comrade,"  called  Bertha,  above 
the  clapping.  "  But  I  forgot,  I  ain't  going  to  talk 
it  to-night." 

"  Yes,  yes — go  ahead!  "  cried  several  voices. 

"No!"  Bertha's  negative  was  smiling  but 
decided.  "No;  to-night  I  talk  kindergarten  talk; 
I  talk  trade  unionism." 

"  Hummer,  isn't  she?  "  chuckled  Cuthbert  amid  the 
laughter. 

"Now  look  here!"  she  exclaimed,  beating  down 
the  good-natured  clamour  with  her  own  heavy,  rather 


i88  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

roughened  voice.  '*  Now  look  here;  don't  you  make 
the  mistake  to  think  I  jolly  the  trade  unions.  The 
trade  unions  are  the  school  where  they  make  Socialists. 
They  are  the  best  school  we  got.  They  train  the 
working  class  to  stand  together.  They  train  the 
working  class  to  know  they  are  a  class.  They  train 
the  working  class  to  know  they  are  the  ones  to  save 
themselves;  nobody  else  dies  to  save  them.  And 
they  are  going  to  save  themselves  by  standing 
together.  Now  here's  the  difference — the  way  I  see 
it :  trade  unionists  say — '  We  going  to  save  ourselves ;' 
Socialists  say — *  We  going  to  save  the  world.*  That's 
when  you  come  out  of  the  kindergarten  into  the  high 
school — into  the  imiversity." 

Again  there  was  loud  clapping.  I  glanced  at 
Tristram.  His  critic's  eyes  were  fixed  with  intel- 
lectual pleasure  upon  Bertha ;  and  I  saw  her  look  at 
him,  and  swiftly  away  again,  as  if  against  her  will  she 
wanted  to  know  what  he  thought  of  her. 

"  But  to-night,"  she  continued,  "  it  don't  matter 
what  else  some  of  us  are,  we  are  all  trade  unionists. 
If  there  is  anybody  here  who  is  not,  he  better  walk  out 
— because  we  don't  have  any  use  for  him,  nor  for  her. 
If  there  is  anybody  here  who  don't  believe  in  the  union 
and  the  closed  shop,  after  all  the  talk  this  evening — 
from  the  organisers  of  the  trade  unions  and  the 
Women's  Trade  Union  League — why,  what  is  he  here 
for?  He  better  go.  Our  picket ers,  they  will  tackle 
him  to-morrow  morning." 

There  was  more  laughter,  but  no  one  went  out. 

''  And  now  you  have  heard  what  Miss  Baldwin  said 
about  committees.  That's  the  next  thing.  We  got 
to  have  a  committee  to  raise  funds,  and  to  do  the 


X^ 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  189 

clerical  work,  and  to  look  up  the  girls  that  don't 
turn  up;  and  a  committee  on  public  meetings — and 
grievances — and  to  confer  with  the  employers  when 
they  get  good  and  ready  to  confer. — They  will— 
because  we're  going  to  stay  out  till  they  do." 

She  paused,  and  her  hearers  made  no  sound,  but 
every  Hp  was  set. 

"  Now,  there  must  be  near  five  hundred  packed  in 
here,"  she  resumed.  "  And  we  don't  know  your 
names,  except  a  few ;  but  will  you  give  them  to  Miss 
Emery  and  Miss  Baldwin  and  me;  and  Mr.  Samson 
said  he  would  be  here  to  take  the  men's  names " 

"  He's  detained,"  Cuthbert  called  over  my  shoulder, 
"  he'll  try  to  come  later." 

"  I'll  take  the  names  for  him,"  said  Cyrus. 

"That's  right!  Everybody  knows  Mr.  Cyrus 
Emery;  he  takes  the  men's  names  for  committees. 
Say  what  you  are  willing  to  do.  And  for  pickets  now : 
I  want  all  the  very  Uttle,  weak  girls;  all  the  little 
girls  that  ought  to  be  under  sixteen,  but  of  course 
they  ain't." 

She  smiled  sarcastically  and  other  people  laughed. 
"  And  you  walk  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets, 
or  behind  your  back.  You  don't  touch  anybody  with 
your  little  finger.  You  don't  stand  in  front  of  any- 
body; you  don't  blow  your  breath  on  them,  because 
it  might  knock  them  down  and  then  they  can  have 
you  for  assault.  You  just  walk  with  them  and  talk 
very  quiet.  All  the  girls  that  will  picket,  go  in  the 
gymnasium  office  over  there  and  wait  for  me.  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  must  say  to  the  scabs.  I'U  tell 
you  all  the  things  you  must  say. — And  now,  let's  get 
busy.    The  strike's  on.    We're  five  hundred  already. 


igo  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

To-morrow  we'll  be  a  thousand — the  next  day  two 
thousand,  the  next  day  six.  There's  over  forty 
thousand  garment  workers  in  this  town,  and  in  ten 
days  we'll  have  them  all  out — and  out  to  w^in!  " 

A  great  wave  of  applause  shook  the  hall,  and  Bertha 
came  down  from  the  low  platform  and  made  her  way 
to  us  through  crowds  of  radiant  faces,  and  hands  that 
struggled  to  touch  her  as  she  passed. 

"  It  was  masterly,  Miss  Aarons,"  said  Tristram. 
"  I  hope  I  may  do  as  well  when  my  time  comes." 

"  AU  but  that  about  the  kindergarten,"  Bertha 
replied,  looking  at  me.  "  Miss  Emery  thinks  I  put 
my  foot  in  it  there.     I  saw  her  face  w^hen  I  said  it." 

"I  was  afraid  —  it  wasn't  quite  discreet,"  I 
stammered  apologetically. 

*'  I  ain't  discreet.  That's  where  I  fall  down  ever>^ 
time,"  Bertha  admitted.  "  If  I  don't  do  something 
to  queer  this  whole  show  before  I'm  done,  you  can 
call  me  a  miracle. — But  it's  you  newspaper  men  that 
make  the  mischief,"  she  added.  "I'm  not  afraid  of 
Comrade  Sylvester  here.  The  Torch  is  with  the 
union  in  this  fight.  But  how  do  I  know  " — she  faced 
Tristram  half  defiantly  —  "what  your  high -class 
periodical  will  say  about  us  ?  What  is  your  high-class 
periodical  anyhow?  " 

Tristram  with  becoming  meekness  gave  the  name 
of  his  great  weekly,  and — she  had  never  heard  of  it. 

"  A  new  ten-center?  "  she  inquired,  and  then — 
"  How  can  I  keep  the  run  of  all  the  fashion 
magazines?  "  Her  eye  travelled  up  and  down 
Tristram's  subdued  elegance;  he  was  wearing  a  dinner 
jacket  and  had  kept  on  his  Ught  overcoat. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Lawrence,"  said  I,  "  Miss  Aarons." 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  191 

"  Lawrence?  "  said  Bertha,  studying  him  seriously 
now.  *'  You  mean  —  Lawrence  ?  —  Mr.  Tristram 
Lawrence?  " — and  Tristram  bowed.  For  a  moment 
she  looked  at  him  in  silence.  Then  she  said — "  You 
know,  there  might  be  a  chance  for  you,  this  election, 
if  you  would  stand  for  the  closed  shop.  But  of  course 
you  don't  believe  in  it — you're  a  Reformer." 

''You  think  I  am  too  old  to  be  converted?** 
smiled  Tristram.  "  Who  knows,  perhaps  I  am  not 
even  impervious  to  the  appeal  of  Socialism?  "  He 
waited,  the  smile  of  challenge  on  his  lips. 

"  Well,  first,  I  must  talk  to  those  pickets,"  said 
Bertha,  turning  abruptly  away. 

"  And  then?  "  he  suggested,  following  her. — "  And 
then?" 

"  While  I  take  the  names  of  these  girls  who  are 
willing  to  serve  on  the  grievance  committee,"  I  said 
to  Cuthbert,  "  you  go  and  tell  Cyrus  that  you  will 
see  me  home." 

But  after  I  had  said  it  I  was  almost  sorry,  he  looked 
at  me  so  strangely. 


I  am  in  a  quandary  about  the  autobiography. 

I  had  not  thought  of  it  as  a  record  of  personal 
emotions.  Robert  Owen  was  my  inspiration,  not 
Rousseau;  and  the  impulse  toward  self -revelation, 
so  compelling  in  people  like  Marie  Bashkirtseff,  is 
quite  alien  to  me — at  least,  so  I  supposed.  Even 
apart  from  the  question  of  good  taste,  I  would  rather 
keep  certain  things  to  myself;  and  as  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  the  woman  who  wouldn't  is  the 
exception,  not  the  rule.    When  I  was  still  a  little 


192  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

girl,  Esther  Summerson's  story  in  Bleak  House 
offended  my  embryonic  instinct  for  literary  values; 
it  seemed  to  me  so  impossible  that  a  real  daughter 
could  have  brought  herself  to  write  that  description 
of  Lady  Dedlock's  death.  And  I  remember  scoring 
Jane  Eyre  unmercifully  in  a  college  theme,  when  I 
was  a  Sophomore,  because  of  her  lack  of  reticence 
in  recording  her  sentiments  for  Rochester. 

But  Nemesis  is  upon  me.  In  going  over  my  notes 
and  journals,  to  refresh  my  memory  of  that  walk 
home  with  Cuthbert,  I  have  been  startled  to  find 
how  important  a  role  personal  emotion  has  played  in 
this  stormy  Httle  social  drama  of  ours.  I  had  thought 
that  the  dramatic  forces  were  the  Strike,  the  Election, 
and  our  SociaHst  Newspaper;  yet,  if  I  leave  out 
certain  episodes  and  conversations,  irrelevant  enough 
on  the  surface,  I  cannot  seem  to  make  the  crises 
inteUigible.  I  have  tried.  But  if  I  put  those  episodes 
and  conversations  in,  I  remind  myself  so  inevitably 
of  Mavis  Clare  in  that  book  of  Marie  Corelli's  where 
even  the  devil  falls  in  love  with  her.  And  that  would 
be  giving  my  great-grandchildren  such  a  wrong  im- 
pression, for  I  am  not  really  the  sort  of  woman  with 
whom  men  fall  in  love  easily;  not  magnetic,  not 
elusive,  not  provocative  in  any  way;  not  like  Helen, 
for  example,  whom  men  propose  to  within  a  week 
after  they  have  met  her — who  has  had  three  times  as 
many  lovers  as  I  have  (even  counting  all  those  as 
lovers  who  have  asked  me  to  marry  them)  and  never 
needs  to  question  their  motives,  since  she  is  her  only 
attraction. — But  if  it  is  indelicate  of  me  to  mention 
my  own  love  affairs  in  my  autobiography,  how  much 
more  so  to  speak  of  Helen's ! 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  193 

I  wrote  Lucian  that  I  thought  I  would  tear  up  the 
whole  thing;  but  to-day  his  letter  has  come,  and  he 
is  so  grieved.  He  asks  me  if  the  conversations  that 
I  shrink  from  including  are  more  intimate  than  some 
of  the  poems  he  has  printed.  Perhaps  not;  it  is  hard 
to  say.  A  different  criterion  of  reticence  applies  to 
poems.  He  instances  Tolstoy,  whose  books  are  one 
long,  continuous,  intimate  revelation  of  himself.  He 
reminds  me  of  the  autobiographical  element  in 
Dickens,  in  Thackeray,  in  George  Eliot.  He  is  the 
artist;  his  point  of  view  is  inevitable.  He  brushes 
aside  my  scruples  as  to  involving  other  people,  by 
again  suggesting  a  change  of  names.  So  many  strikes 
have  happened,  in  so  many  cities,  he  pleads;  and  as 
for  a  Socialist  paper  in  hot  water,  or  a  Reform  candi- 
date maligned,  what  is  there  distinctive  about  that? 

Concerning  Cuthbert,  Lucian  could  not  be  more 
generous.  He  seems  to  Uke  him  and  understand  him 
better  since  he  has  had  to  forgive  him  so  much.  He 
feels  that  I  ought  not  to  be  squeamish  about  repeating 
anything  that  helps  to  explain  or  excuse  the  ugly 
thing  that  Cuthbert  did.  But  I  wonder  if  he  would 
feel  so  in  Cuthbert's  place.  And  I  wonder  if  I 
exaggerate  my  own  importance  in  the  affair;  or  if 
Cuthbert  himself  realises  why  he  did  it.  But  no; 
he  is  not  Ukely  to  go  very  deep  down  into  that  poor 
sore  heart  of  his  for  motives. 

Why  I  should  feel  less  delicacy  in  regard  to  the 
things  that  Tristram  said  to  me,  I  don't  quite  know, 
except  that  they  were  so  deliberate.  I  want  to  be 
generous  to  Tristram.  He  was,  of  course,  the  injured 
party,  and  he  insisted  that  he  did  not  want  to 
prosecute.    I  ought  to  be  able  to  forgive  him  if 

N 


194  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Lucian  can.  But  could  he  ever  forgive  me  if  he  read 
the  autobiography? 

And  all  the  while  I  know  that  these  scruples  of 
mine  are  concerned  very  little  with  the  fear  of  giving 
my  great-grandchildren,  or  other  readers  less  remote, 
a  wrong  impression  of  Cuthbert  and  Tristram,  and 
very  much  with  a  desire  to  give  them  a  right  im- 
pression of  me.  Surely,  any  one  must  see  that  neither 
the  hulking  passion  of  a  penniless  country  boy,  nor 
the  cold  financial  amorousness  of  an  ambitious  man 
in  middle  life,  is  the  sort  of  homage  that  a  woman 
wiUingly  dwells  on  when  she  is  writing  her  memoirs. 

Perhaps  we  shall  keep  the  autobiography  until  we 
are  seventy-five.  In  that  event  I  think  I  could  bring 
myself  to  finish  it  now.  I  am  afraid  I  only  want  an 
excuse.  It  has  been  a  part  of  me  so  many  years — 
and  I  always  finish  things. 

VI 

I  am  always  rather  silly  about  the  settlement,  it 
is  such  a  pretty  plaything — my  doll's  house,  Helen 
caUs  it — and  on  our  way  out  I  could  not  resist  taking 
Cuthbert  through  the  httle  new  theatre,  where  an 
impassioned  rehearsal  of  Yeats' s  Kathleen  na  Hoolihan 
was  going  forward.  I  ought  to  have  known  better, 
for  Cuthbert's  attitude  towards  all  settlements  is,  of 
course,  immovably  Marxian.  Anything  that  aims 
to  improve  the  conditions  of  the  working  people  and 
tends  to  make  them  contented  under  the  present 
economic  system,  he  distrusts.  Anything  financed 
by  the  bourgeois  capitahst  as  a  philanthropic  measure, 
he  hates.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  who  have  lived 


^^ 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  195 

in  them  know  that  settlements  do  not  improve  the 
conditions  of  the  working  people;  indeed,  that  they 
cannot  improve  those  conditions.  We  know  also 
that  instead  of  tending  to  make  the  poor  man  con- 
tented, this  sort  of  patching  which  is  all — in  the  way 
of  relief — that  settlements  accomplish,  only  serves 
to  aggravate  his  discontent  with  the  economic  system 
fraying  and  puckering  around  the  patch.  It  is 
because  I  beheve  that  settlements  are  one  of  the 
indirect  ways  of  making  working  people  into  Socialists 
that  I  still  keep  my  connection  with  Helen's  settle- 
ment; it  is  also  because  I  see  that  the  educative 
reaction  of  a  philanthropic  measure  is  not  confined 
to  the  technical  benificiaries;  the  settlement  resident 
and  the  bourgeois  capitalist  invariably  acquire  some- 
thing more  than  merit.  Helen,  although  she  re- 
pudiates Socialism  as  a  system,  is  always  getting  me 
to  sign  my  name  to  some  new  reform  measure  along 
socialistic  lines,  to  be  pressed  at  the  state  capitol. 

But  it  is  useless  to  say  all  this  to  Cuthbert,  who 
moves  in  the  realm  of  theory  only;  and  why  I 
allowed  myself  to  argue  with  him,  vehemently,  for 
six  blocks,  I  do  not  know.  We  ended,  as  always,  by 
caUing  each  other  names. 

"  You  are  a  doctrinaire,"  I  taunted,  **  and  of 
course  you  are  obliged  to  ignore  any  facts  that  don't 
square  with  your  theory." 

"  Well,  I  would  rather  be  a  doctrinaire  than  an 
opportunist  or  a  mush  of  sentiment,"  he  snapped. 
And  at  this  point  our  exchange  of  amenities  was 
interrupted  by  Lazarus  Samson,  who  came  hurrying 
across  the  street  to  ask  if  our  meeting  was  over. 

"  She's  there,"  said  Cuthbert,  "  but  if  you  don't 


196  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

want  the  new  Reform  candidate  to  cut  you  out,  you'd 
better  hustle." 

'*  What  did  she  say  to  our  Socialist  candidate?  '* 
Lazarus  asked;  and  there  was  some  special  meaning 
in  his  smile. 

"  I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  tell  her,"  Cuthbert 
answered,  flushing. 

"  Socialist  candidate?  "  I  asked,  as  we  walked  on. 
"  I  didn't  know  you  were  putting  up  one  for  this 
election." 

"  The  strike  changes  the  look  of  things,  you  know," 
Cuthbert  explained.  "  It's  sure  to  increase  our  vote, 
so  we  thought  we'd  have  a  try.  We  nominated 
to-night  before  I  came  to  the  settlement."  The 
queer,  excited  look  was  shining  again  in  those  bright, 
wide-open  eyes  of  his. 

"  Whom  did  you  nominate?  "  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  a  little  excited  myself. 

"  I'll  give  you  three  guesses." 

And  I  immediately  guessed  Lucian. 

"What  do  you  take  us  for?  "  Cuthbert  snorted. 
*'  You  don't  suppose  he  represents  the  party,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Then  it  is  Uncle  Lew,  I  hope.'* 

But  no,  it  was  not  Uncle  Lew.  *'  He  says  him- 
self he's  not  a  leader,  you  know."  There  was  a  note 
of  discomfiture  in  Cuthbert's  usually  crisp  voice. 

*'  Oh,  Lazarus  Samson,  of  course!  " 

With  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders,  Cuthbert 
gloomed  at  the  pavement.  He  had  never  outgrown 
the  country  boy's  slouching  stride,  and  he  lifted  his 
feet  as  heavily  in  city  streets  as  if  he  were  walking 
over  a  ploughed  field.  Apparently,  somehow,  I  had 
managed  to  hurt  his  feelings. 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  197 

"Who  is  it,  then?  — Oh!  — Cuthbert!  — Is  it 
you?  " 

Still  he  would  not  look  at  me;  but  he  said,  "  Well, 
why  not?  "  with  a  defiant  outward  thrust  of  his  chin. 

"  How  stupid  of  me!  "  I  cried  remorsefully.  "  I 
ought  to  have  known  it  was  you — from  the  way  you 
looked." 

'*  But  you  never  do  know,"  he  answered.  "  My 
looks  never  mean  anything  to  you." 

"  Oh,  Cuthbert! — when  Tm  trying  to  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am!" 

"You  needn't  trouble!" 

"  Very  well,  I  won't." 

We  walked  half  a  block  in  silence.  Then,  because 
after  all  it  was  my  fault  that  his  feelings  were  hurt,  I 
relented,  and  spoke  first. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  first  day  you  took  me  up 
the  mountain,  Cuthbert,  how  you  said,  *  If  ever  I'm 
governor  of  the  state? ' — and  now  you're  candidate 
for  mayor." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  think  I'm  going  to 
be  mayor,"  he  replied,  still  ungracious. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  I  agreed.  "  And  I'm  afraid 
that's  my  fault,  too." 

"  Your  fault  ?  "     He  looked  at  me  now,  grudgingly. 

"  It's  because  you  met  me  that  day  that  you're  a 
SociaUst,  I  suppose." 

He  considered  a  moment  before  he  said,  as  if  the 
idea  were  new  to  him — "  I  suppose  it  is." 

"  Do  you  remember  how  you  said  you  were  going 
to  be  the  richest  man  in  the  world,  like  my  Uncle 
Jesse,  and  buy  things,  and  own  them  ?  " 

"Did  I?  "he  said. 


198  THE  CHILDRElNl  OF  LIGHT 

"  And  you  would  like  to  be  rich,  even  now, 
Cuthbert/' 

"Naturally;  who  wouldn't!  That's  why  I'm  for 
Sociahsm.  Is  there  any  other  way  for  a  man  like  me 
to  come  out  on  top,  nowadays?  " 

"  I  know — Marx  says  it  is  becoming  less  and  less 
possible.  But  if  you  had  never  read  Marx,  you 
might  have  tried  the  other  way.  You  might  even 
have  been  one  of  the  exceptions  to  the  rule — and 
have  succeeded." 

"  I  know,"  he  acquiesced.  "  But  when  a  man  gets 
his  red  card,  when  he  joins  the  Socialist  Party — well, 
I'd  rather  never  come  out  on  top  than  come  there 
your  Uncle  Jesse's,  way — that's  all." 

''  Then  it  isn't  wholly  self-interest " 

He  turned  on  me  with  impatience  and  disgust. 
"  Why  not? — What  else?  The  thing  that  helps  my 
class  is  the  thing  that  will  help  me  in  the  long  run. 
Enlightened  self-interest;   nothing  more." 

"  So  really  we  look  at  life  just  as  differently  to-day 
as  we  did  on  the  mountains  years  ago." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  to-night?  "  he  cried.  "  Is 
this  the  way  you  try  to  make  me  feel  how  glad 
you  are  that  I  have  the  nomination?  "  I  would 
have  protested,  but  without  waiting  he  went  on — 
"Aren't  we  fighting  for  the  same  end? — Where's 
the  separation? — You  don't  think  just  as  C3n:us  does, 
or  Lucian — he's  no  more  Christian  than  I  am." 

"  You  are  mistaken." 

"  I  am  not  mistaken.  Look  at  that  last  editorial 
of  his  against  the  Church " 

"  It  was  intensely  Christian,  Cuthbert.  How  dull 
you  are!  " 


U'TO'; 


THE  SMOKING  FUSE  199 

"  I  am  not  so  dull  but  that  I  know  that  if  he  wanted 
what  I  want,  you'd  give  it " 

For  a  moment  everything  swam  red;  the  bridge 
lights  shot  all  ways  at  once,  dizzily.  I  had  a  horrid 
fear  that  I  had  struck  him,  the  impulse  was  so  intense 
and  swift;  but  the  habit  of  self-control  does  count 
for  something  in  a  crisis. 

"  From  a  gentleman,  your  words  would  be  an 
insult,"  I  remarked.  "  But  I  have  never  mistaken 
you  for  a  gentleman.  Do  not  come  with  me  any 
farther;  I  prefer  to  go  home  alone." 

"Oh,  Clara — forgive  me!"  he  groaned.  Little 
beads  of  moisture  had  started  out  upon  his  sullen, 
frightened  face.  But  I  turned  my  eyes  away  and 
quickened  my  steps. 

"It  is  because  you  starve  me  that  I  say  these 
things,"  he  pleaded,  keeping  beside  me. 

"  Cuthbert,"  I  said,  still  with  my  eyes  fixed  ahead, 
"  I  will  not  be  looked  at  as  you  are  looking  at  me." 

He  turned  his  head  and  doggedly  fell  into  step 
with  me;  and  for  more  than  half  the  River  Way  we 
kept  silence.  Then,  his  misery  began  to  soften  me, 
as  he  had  doubtless  hoped  it  might,  and  I  said,  trying 
not  to  be  sententious: — 

"  The  thing  that  separates  me  from  my  cousins  is, 
in  the  one  case  an  intellectual,  in  the  other  an  ethical 
conception;  the  thing  that  separates  me,  and  them, 
from  you,  is  a  spiritual  attitude.  I  know,  and  you 
know,  too,  that  Lucian  and  I  are  not  Sociahsts  from 
self-interest,  Cuthbert.  Self-interest  would  range 
us  on  the  capitaHst  side  in  this  class  war.  Neither 
can  you  accuse  us  of  fatalism — of  coming  over  because 
we  think  the  outcome  is  inevitable  and  we  want  to 


200  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

be  on  the  side  that  wins.  You  know  that  Lucian  and 
I  wanted  the  socialisation  of  property  long  before 
we  were  wiUing  to  accept  the  materialistic  inter- 
pretation of  history.  And  as  for  Cyrus  —  self- 
interest?  " 

"No;  I  never  said  that,"  murmured  Cuthbert, 
his  chin  on  his  breast. 

I  waited  a  moment,  gripping  my  courage — then — 

"  But  even  though  we  look  at  life  so  differently — 
even  though  our  spirits  are  so  far  apart,  I  know  that 
if  I  felt  for  you  what  you  feel  for  me  " — his  haggard 
eyes  turned  to  me  again — "  there  might  come  a 
moment  of — of — passion — when  we  should  defy  that 
spiritual  barrier. — But  after  that  there  would  be 
tragedy.     One  sees  it  every  day." 

*'  Then  this  is  not  tragedy,  you  think?  " 

What  could  I  say? 


CHAPTER    III 

ILLUMINATION 
I 

At  the  end  of  October,  when  the  strikers  had  begun 
to  show  the  strain,  we  got  out  a  strike  edition  of 
The  Torch.  I  have  a  copy  of  it  here  beside  me  as  I 
write — with  the  picture  of  Bertha  Aarons  on  the 
cover,  and  Lazarus  Samson's  threatening  forecast 
of  the  general  strike  and  exposition  of  syndicaUsm 
leading  the  editorials,  and  Lucian's  Plea  to  the 
Comsumer,  those  ironical  verses  that  begin: — 

"Who  hath  garments,  let  him  strow  them  in  the  way," 

printed  in  red  across  the  middle  page. 

Although  little  more  than  two  months  old.  The 
Torch  had  already  made  good.  Not  financially,  of 
course;  the  weekly  deficit  showed  a  tendency  to 
increase  according  to  the  laws  of  geometrical  pro- 
gression; but  that  we  had  expected.  What  we  cared 
about  was  the  fact  that  everybody  read  it.  The 
news-stands  clamoured  for  it  after  the  first  three 
weeks,  and  Sociahst  locals  all  over  the  country  sent 
in  subscriptions.  The  city  dailies  made  copy  for  a 
few  days  out  of,  "  The  Young  Millionaires*  New  Toy," 
"The  Way  to  Sow  Sociahst  Wild  Oats,"  "An 
Amusing  Attempt  at  Utopian  JoumaHsm,"  and 
called  us  The  Pink  '  Un  and  The  Safety  Lamp.    One 

201 


202  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

of  the  more  recondite,  pursuing  the  historic  method, 
furnished  its  readers  with  a  hst  of  reform  periodicals, 
no  one  of  which  had  survived  its  third  number.  By 
the  end  of  September,  however,  the  press  was  pre- 
serving a  discreet  silence  concerning  us;  and  in 
October  the  gist  of  one  of  our  reviews,  of  an  im- 
portant ItaUan  book  on  degeneracy  and  crime,  was 
quoted  with  favourable  comment  in  a  magazine  that 
makes  a  business  of  summarising  current  thought. 

The  strike,  of  course,  increased  our  circulation; 
and  also  threatened  to  swamp  us  with  copy.  Lucian 
was  for  reorganising  at  once  and  becoming  a  daily. 
He  had  Cuthbert  on  his  side;  and  for  a  day  Lazarus 
Samson  wavered,  but  his  instinct  for  caution  pre- 
vailed, and  when  we  took  the  vote  he  went  with 
Uncle  Lew  and  me.  We  all  agreed,  however,  that 
the  strike  issue  must  be  an  extra. 

We  none  of  us  had  much  time  to  spare  for  food 
and  sleep,  that  week,  and  I  was  at  the  office  every 
night  till  after  twelve,  sifting  and  arranging  the 
material  that  came  pouring  in  for  my  department. 
It  was  hke  dwelling  in  the  Cave  of  Rumour;  the  air 
we  breathed  was  a  perpetual  whispering.  The 
stately  old  house  that  sheltered  The  Torch  was  filled 
with  evil  report.  Not  in  the  offices  of  the  staff  only, 
but  in  the  subscription  department,  the  advertising 
department,  the  press  room — scandals,  political,  in- 
dustrial, domestic,  teazed  for  print.  They  lay  in 
wait  for  me  on  the  wide  mahogany  staircase.  I  could 
almost  hear  them  through  my  thick  office  door,  of 
a  morning,  as  they  clamoured  in  the  letters  on  my 
desk;  I  used  to  dread  opening  that  slow  old 
door. 


ILLUMINATION  203 

The  others  enjoyed  them  more  than  I  did,  and 
were  in  a  state  of  continuous  regret  over  the  things 
we  dared  not  pubUsh.  Men  are  hardier  than  women, 
in  some  ways.  They  like  the  fight  for  the  fight's 
sake,  and  I  wonder  if  we  ever  do.  I  was  always 
saying  '*  Don't!"  In  their  different  ways  I  think 
they  were  all  a  bit  restive  under  what  they  good- 
naturedly  dubbed  "my  feminine  influence;"  but 
they  invariably  brought  me  their  copy  for  comment 
before  they  sent  it  up  to  the  printers.  It  was  very 
nice  of  them. 

I  remember,  the  day  before  the  strike  edition  went 
to  press,  Lucian  came  into  my  office  with  an  editorial 
on  the  campaign  methods  of  the  machine;  and 
together  we  were  trying  to  veil  some  of  his  utterances 
and  convey  to  the  public  in  non-libellous  language 
the  undoubted,  but  as  yet  unprovable,  information 
that  the  machine  candidate,  who  posed  as  the  work- 
ing man's  friend,  was  drawing  campaign  funds  from 
the  tills  of  certain  sweating  manufacturers.  We  had 
been  drawn  by  the  incident  into  our  old  quarrel  over 
Socialist  Party  tactics,  and  I  was  trying  to  maintain 
that  to  keep  a  third  candidate  in  the  field  at  this 
juncture  was  immoral  since  it  could  only  split  the  Re- 
form vote  and  make  the  machine's  victory  inevitable. 
But  Lucian  would  persist  in  making  the  issue  personal, 
and  harping  on  my  interest  in  the  particular  reformer 
in  question.  It  was  unworthy  of  him — unlike  him; 
but  I  was  trying  hard  to  keep  my  temper,  when  the 
boy  brought  me  Tristram  Lawrence's  card. 

Lucian  swept  up  his  copy  rather  huffily. 

"  Don't  go!  "  I  said.  "  It  must  be  business.  He 
wouldn't  come  here  to  make  a  social  call." 


204  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Business,  no  doubt,"  he  replied,  "  but  evidently 
not  with  me." 

At  the  door  he  looked  back.  "  You  know  he  is 
trying  to  make  a  fool  of  Bertha  Aarons?  " 

"No,  I  don't  know;  but  probably  she  does — if 
he  is.     Why  make  irrelevant  remarks?  " 

"  I  never  do." 

"  Then  I  must  be  stupid." 

"  Well,  don't  be  stupid  the  next  half  hour,  that's 
aUl" 

II 

Tristram's  greeting  was  disconcerting. 

"  If  you  will  not  stay  at  home  to  be  called  upon 
properly,"  he  said,  "  what  can  I  do?  " 

I  stared. 

"Is  it  a  great  liberty?"  His  eyes  hovered 
amusedly  over  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  a  little  girl 
playing  editor. 

"  I  should  suppose  you  had  work  of  your  own  to 
do,  this  time  of  day,"  I  replied. 

"  And  what  is  work?  "  He  laid  his  arm  along  my 
desk  and  leaned  toward  me,  smiling.  "Work? — 
Isn't  it  a  striving  after  the  thing  we  want?  " 

I  shook  my  head.     "  No — the  thing  we  need." 

The  involuntary  flash  of  appreciation  in  his  eyes 
flattered  me  more  than  their  superfluity  of  tenderness. 

"  You  have  a  genius  for  the  inevitable  word,"  he 
said.  "  Need;  yes.  And  I  called  on  you  yesterday 
at  five,  and  the  day  before  at  half -past  eight.  Do 
you  ever  look  in  the  card  bowl  on  your  hall  table?  " 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say,  "  Your  need 


ILLUMINATION  205 

must  be  very  great;  "  but  I  had  a  second  thought,  in 
time.  "  The  Reform  candidate  evidently  thinks  I 
can  be  of  service  to  him,"  I  mocked,  instead. 

"Oh,  the  Reform  candidate!"  He  shrugged. 
"  Perhaps  I  want  to  be  mayor — I'm  not  so  sure. 
Do  you  think  I  need  to  be  mayor?  " 

"  For  the  city's  sake?  "  I  suggested. 

"  If  I  thought  you  really  thought  so  " — his  hand 
moved  a  bit  farther  toward  me,  along  the  desk. 

'*  You  don't  think  I  want  the  machine,  I  hope." 

"  You  don't? — I  thought  that  if  you  were  a  real 
bright  red  Socialist  you  had  to  want  the  machine — 
if  you  couldn't  have  your  own  candidate.  I  thought 
you  had  to  want  the  worst  thing  in  sight,  for  its 
educational  effect  on  the  community.  I  gathered  so 
much  from  The  Torch." 

"  Theoretically,  you  do,"  I  admitted. 

"  But — practically — you  think — I  might  make  a 
fairly  decent  mayor — Clara — you  think  I  might?  " 

"Of  course!" 

But  my  matter-of-fact  tone  failed  of  its  effect. 

*'  You  know,  my  party  think  I'm  more  than  half  a 
Socialist  already,"  he  continued  lightly.  "  They're 
quite  uneasy  about  me." 

"  They  needn't  be,"  I  taunted,  laughing. 

"No;  they  needn't.  But  it  is  quite  possible  that 
if  I  come  in,  I  shall  be  able — and  willing — to  push 
measures  as  Socialistic  as  any  your  young  Sylvester 
would  introduce." 

"  Yes;    I've  observed  you  stealing  his  thunder." 

"The  traction  matter;  and  the  city  gas? — Well, 
I  mean  it." 

"  Mean  it !  "  said  I.     "  What  a  strange  afiirmation. 


2o6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Are  you  making  other  promises  that  you  don't 
mean?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  answered  with  some  heat, 
*'  I  am  making  no  promises  which  I  do  not  see  my 
way  clear  to  carrying  out.  Sylvester  would  be  wiser 
if  he  followed  a  similar  poHcy." 

"  Still,  as  neither  of  you  is  likely  to  get  a  chance/* 
I  teased. 

"  I  am  not  so  much  of  an  opportunist  as  that 
comes  to,  however." 

I  flushed  at  his  implication,  and  for  a  moment 
there  was  silence.  He  drew  a  careful  line  along  the 
edge  of  the  desk  with  my  paper  cutter  before  he 
said: — 

"  If  the  Socialists  want  to  give  a  practical  demon- 
stration of  the  power  of  co-operation — there  is  a 
chance  for  me." 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  this. 

'*  Clara,"  he  touched  my  fingers  softly  with  the 
paper  cutter.  "  Do  you  think  Cuthbert  Sylvester 
would  make  a  better  mayor  than  I?  " 

"No;  how  absurd!" 

"  You  would  rather  see  me  mayor  than  either  of 
those  other  two?  " 

"  If  it  were  a  question  of  the  individual — yes." 

"  But  isn't  it  a  question  of  the  individual? 
Suppose — the  impossible — that  my  party  could  be 
brought  to  consider  a  merger  with  the  Sociahsts,  and 
I  should  step  down  in  favour  of  their  candidate — 
would  you  agree  to  it?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  I  faltered. 

"Why?" 

"  You  know  why.    Because  I  care  for  the  cause 


ILLUMINATION  207 

more  than  I  do  for  the  individual.  Because  Cuth- 
bert  is  too  ignorant,  too  inexperienced,  too  young. 
As  its  representative  he  could  not  fail,  just  now,  to 
do  SociaHsm  more  harm  than  good." 

"  And  you  think  I  should  harm  the  cause  also — 
by  advocating  municipal  gas,  municipal  traction, 
municipal  luncheons  for  school  children?  " 

"  Cuthbert  and  Lazarus  Samson  would  think  so. 
They  would  say  you  were  hindering — setting  back 
Socialism — by  making  the  people  too  comfortable; 
putting  them  to  sleep  so  the  spoilers  might  have  a 
freer  field." 

"But  you?" 

"  I  suppose  I  am  still  something  of  a  Fabian." 

"  Then  if  you  think  my  election  would  really 
further  Socialism — oughtn't  you  to  want  to  help  me?" 

"  Help  you?  "  I  drew  my  hand  away  from  the 
encroaching  paper  cutter.     "How?  " 

The  keen  eyes  quizzed.  "  Why — as  Cyrus  would 
say — ^with  your  prayers." 

And  suddenly  he  had  my  hand,  fast  under  his;  and 
the  mockery  had  melted  out  of  his  eyes,  out  of  his 
voice;  and  he  was  saying : — 

"  Child — I've  waited  years.  Don't  you  know, 
yet,  how  you  can  help  me?  Don't  you  know  what 
the  one  thing  is  that  can  make  success  worth  while 
for  me,  or  failure  a  triumph?  Don't  you  know? — 
Dear,  is  it  never  going  to  be  a  question  of  the 
individual? — Never — never?  " 

One  thinks  of  queer  things  at  such  times.  I 
thought  of  that  evening  in  the  hay-field,  long  ago; 
and  how  Lucian's  wet  cheek  pressing  against  mine 
had  comforted  me.    The  faint  tapping  of  the  type- 


2o8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

writer  in  the  inner  office  stopped.  My  stenographer 
was  in  the  habit  of  coming  in  without  knocking.  I 
pulled  my  hand  away  and  the  girl  put  her  head  in 
the  door  and  said : — 

*'  Miss  Aarons;   coming  up.** 

And  as  she  said  it,  Bertha's  knock  came. 

*Xome!"  I  called;  and  to  him,  smiling,  "It  will 
depend  upon  the  individual." 

"  They  said  come  right  up,"  Bertha  explained, 
"  but  I  wiU  wait." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  I  reassmred  her.  "  Mr.  Lawrence  had 
just  finished." 

We  were  all  three  standing,  and  Tristram  with  an 
acquiescent  smile  gave  his  chair  to  Bertha;  then,  to 
my  surprise,  he  drew  up  another  for  himself.  I  waited 
a  suggestive  moment,  still  standing,  and  he  too, 
stood,  of  course.  The  dismissal  direct  is  editorial 
prerogative — but  I  sat  down. 

"If  my  constituents  could  see  me  now!"  he 
exclaimed  gleefully,  planting  his  chair  opposite 
Bertha  and  me,  with  assumed  bravado.  "  I  am 
afraid  they  would  cancel  the  nomination." 

Bertha  laughed.  "  I  will  write  them  they  don't 
have  to  worry.  You  are  grinding  the  axes  all 
right." 

"  Did  I  have  an  axe  to  grind?  "  Tristram  appealed 
to  me. 

But  Bertha  answered — "  Maybe  they  are  scissors. 
The  closed  shop  and  the  Reform  ticket — those  two 
sharp  edges.  Screw  them  together — snip,  snip — 
how  sharp  they  cut !  " 

She  sliced  the  air  with  two  fingers,  perilously  near 
his  nose. 


ILLUMINATION  209 

"  But  if  they  cut  me?  "  His  suggestion  was 
mournful. 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  clumsy !  "  she  retorted.  And  then, 
meeting  his  eyes  steadily — "  It  don't  matter  to  me 
what  happens  to  you  if  we  win  this  strike." 

His  amused  face  said  that  he  didn't  beheve  her. 
"  I  am  sufficiently  flattered  that  you  care  to  use  me 
for  your  impersonal  ends,"  he  repHed. 

"  Well,  to  be  used  that  way  don't  flatter  me." 
Again  her  eyes  braved  his.  "  But  I  stand  it  because 
I  want  to  win." 

The  inference  was  not  to  be  mistaken;  and  there 
was  a  pause  before  he  said,  at  his  gentlest: — 

"  You  know,  I  want  you  to  win." 

"You  hear  that.  Miss  Emery?"  Bertha  cried. 
*'  There's  copy  for  The  Torch.  '  The  Reform 
candidate  commits  himself  before  witnesses.'  Ain't 
that  how  you  say  it  in  headlines?  " 

He  laughed,  but  I  thought  he  looked  a  bit  startled. 

"  Well,  you  know  what  you  can  do  to  help,  if  you 
mean  what  you  say,"  Bertha  continued.  "  You  can 
make  that  philanthropic  department  store  friend  of 
yours  demand  the  union  label  on  all  his  ready-made 
suits." 

The  banter  dropped  from  Tristram's  tone.  "  I 
have  been  turning  that  over  in  my  mind  since  you 
suggested  it  yesterday,"  he  said. 

"  Keep  on  turning  till  it  is  done  brown,"  urged 
Bertha. 

"  It  would  not  necessarily  commit  him  to  the 
closed  shop,  to  ask  for  the  label  on  his  goods." 

"  If  he  likes  to  think  it  wouldn't,  why — I  don't 
care."    There  was  a  hint  of  contempt  in  the  comers 

o 


210  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

of  Bertha's  long  mouth.     "If  he  forces  it  on  the 
manufacturer,  that's  what  I'm  after." 

"  Suppose  I  see  what  I  can  do."  He  turned  to  me 
now.  '*  The  union  label  stands  for  good  conditions 
and  fair  wages,  as  I  understand  it " 

"Hold  that  thought!"  Bertha  broke  in.  "And 
hypnotise  your  philanthropic  merchant  with  it.  If 
you  get  him,  the  other  stores  will  follow." 

"You  don't  think  I'll  get  him?  "  Tristram  said 
to  me. 

"  He's  been  a  philanthropist  longer  than  you  have," 
I  answered.  "  He  knows  aU  that  the  union  label 
connotes.  You  may  get  him  because  he  is  really 
tender-hearted,  and  because  the  sympathy  of  the 
pubHc  is  going  with  the  strikers  just  now,  and  to  side 
with  them  against  the  manufacturers  might  be  good 
business  policy — though  I  doubt  it.  You  may  get 
him  because  the  Sociahsts  are  pressing  for  a  general 
sympathetic  strike  of  all  industries.  But  you  won't 
hoodwink  him." 

"You  think  I  would  try  to  hoodwink  him?" 
Was  it  real  chagrin,  I  wondered. 

Bertha  did  not  interrupt,  this  time,  and  I  said,  "  All 
is  fair?" 

"  Then  come  to  limch  with  me,  both  of  you,  and 
help  me  plan  my  attack.  I  am,  as  you  hint,  a  babe 
in  philanthropy;  I  need  guidance." 

He  stood  up  and  looked  at  us  expectantly. 

"  If  your  constituents  would  be  troubled  to  find 
you  here,"  I  suggested,  "  might  they  not  be  stiU  more 
anxious  if  we  lunched  with  you?  " 

"Oh,  no!  Guileless  openness  always  disarms 
suspicion."     He  stooped  for  his  hat. 


ILLUMINATION  211 

"  You  don*t  need  any  lessons  in  hoodwinking,"  I 
laughed.  "  My  lunch  is  always  sent  in,  the  day  we 
go  to  press,  thank  you." 

Bertha  too  had  risen. 

"  Then  you  didn't  want  to  see  me  about  anything 
special?  "  I  asked. 

"  Look  at  me  forgetting!  "  she  exclaimed,  flushing; 
and  laid  on  my  desk  another  and  more  damaging 
version  of  the  relations  between  the  machine  candidate 
and  the  sweating  manufacturers. 

"  Yes;  we  have  this,"  I  said.  "  We  risk  some- 
thing, printing  it — but  still " 

**  Why — a  libel  would  boom  The  Torch,"  she  cried, 
"  and  the  strike,  and  the  Socialist  campaign." 

"  It  would  depend  on  the  libel,"  I  demurred. 
"  But  this  might — that's  why  I  agreed  to  put  it  in." 

"  For  the  real  fighting  spirit,  commend  me  to 
women!  "  Tristram  murmured.  He  was  holding  the 
door  open  for  Bertha;  and  as  they  went  down  the 
hall  together  I  heard  him  say: — "So  you're  not 
afraid  to  lunch  with  me?  " 

"  It's  you  that  take  the  risk,  to  be  seen  with  me," 
she  answered.  "  They  know  I  wiU  work  you  for  the 
strike  if  I  can.  But  what  can  you  work  me  for? 
I  don't  have  a  vote." 

Suppose,  after  all  these  cautious,  fastidious  years 
he  were  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  who  had  no  money 
— a  working  girl?  How  good  for  him  it  would  be! 
But  would  it  be  good  for  her?  I  wished,  uneasily, 
that  I  had  gone  to  lunch  with  them. 


212  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


III 

Two  hours  afterward,  when  I  was  munching  a 
belated  sandwich  and  blue  pencilling  copy  for  the 
importunate  printers'  boy,  the  house  telephone 
buzzed,  and  Lucian's  voice  said — "  Mother  is  here." 

I  recognised  the  appeal. 

**  Wouldn't  she  like  to  come  up  to  me,  in  about 
five  minutes?  "  I  suggested. 

"  If  you  could  come  down,  Clara  ? — The  marchese 
is  here  also. — It's  about  Cyrus." 

"  We  have  the  staff  meeting  at  four-thirty." 

"  I  know." 

"Cyrus  isn't  there?" 

"  No;  but  he's  coming  in  for  the  meeting,  to  give 
us  some  statistics  on  the  amount  of  strikers'  reUef 
necessary." 

"  Wouldn't  it  expedite  matters  to  have  him  drop 
in  earlier?  " 

"  It  might." 

So  I  rang  up  Helen  at  the  settlement.  She  could 
usually  be  counted  on  to  know  where  Cyrus  was. 
And  he  was  there,  with  her,  she  said.  There  was 
something  queer  about  her  voice.  No;  he  was  not 
in  that  room — ^in  the  next. 

"  Helen,  is  anything  the  matter?  "  I  asked. 

"Matter?" 

"  You  soimd — I  don't  know — offended;  secretive." 

*'  Perhaps  you've  done  me  an  injury  and  your 
conscience  is  guilty,"  she  replied.  "  I  don't  know 
what  else  it  can  be.    Shall  I  call  Cyrus?  " 


ILLUMINATION  213 

"No;  if  you'll  just  tell  him  not  to  wait  till  four- 
thirty.  We'd  be  glad  to  have  him  come  along  now, 
if  he  can." 

"  You  know,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "  what  he 
wants  to  do  ?  " 

"No;  I've  hardly  seen  him  this  week,  we've  been 
so  rushed  at  the  office." 

I  waited  a  moment,  and  as  I  added,  "  Good-bye," 
her  reluctant  voice  said — "  Don't  hinder  him,  Clara !  " 

I  asked  what  she  meant,  but  she  had  evidently 
hung  up  the  receiver. 

In  Lucian's  office  the  marchese  was  standing  at 
gaze,  thirstily,  before  a  large  photograph  on  glass,  of 
Mont  Blanc  from  Courmayeur,  which  Lucian  kept 
hanging  in  the  window.  My  Cousin  Pauline  flitted 
about,  a-tremble,  like  a  moth.  Lucian  was  signing 
letters  for  which  his  secretary  waited. 

"  Clara,  darling,  I  am  being  a  bother  as  usual." 
My  Cousin  Pauline  kissed  me  daintily.  "  Lucian  is 
being  his  most  patient."  She  made  a  mischievous 
grimace  at  her  son,  who  said : — 

"  That's  all  for  now.  Miss  Merrill,"  to  the  secretary 
— and  we  were  left  en  famille. 

*'  Perhaps  Clara  knows  all  about  it?  "  My  Cousin 
Pauline's  voice  was  wistful.  "  I  am  usually  the  last 
one  in  whom  he  confides." 

It  pleased  her  to  find  that  I  knew  nothing.  Cyrus 
had  a  queer  dread  of  being  influenced  in  his  decisions 
by  his  affections. 

"  Is  it  the  Anglican  Benedictines?  "  I  asked,  "  or 
Rome?  " 

"  Per  Dio!  Does  he  consider  Rome?  "  exclaimed 
the  marchese,  roused  from  his  contemplation  of  Mont 


214  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Blanc.  "  They  wiU  strip  him  cleatn  if  they  get  him. 
We  must  not  aUow  that." 

*'  If  we  only  knew,"  my  Cousin  Pauline  mourned. 
"  All  he  will  say  is  that  he  wants  to  disappear.  I 
don*t  know  what  he  means.     Disappear?  " 

"  He  is  very  Tolstoyan,  you  know,"  said  Lucian. 

"  But  even  Tolstoy  considers  his  family,"  she 
complained.  "  Lucian,  if  I  had  been  a  selfish  woman, 
your  hfe  would  be  very  different." 

Lucian  laughed,  and  kissed  her. 

"  Do  I  claim  my  children  for  myself?  Amolfo 
knows  what  I  suffer  in  these  separations." 

The  marchese  turned  back  to  the  snows  of  Mont 
Blanc. 

"  If  I  were  a  worldly  mother,  it  might  be  better 
for  all  of  us.  I  never  told  you  of  Prince  Pazzini's 
overtures,  Lucian — his  youngest  daughter — you 
remember " 

"  I*m  glad  you  haven't,"  Lucian  interrupted 
hastily. 

"  And  last  winter  when  Clara  was  with  me  in  Paris, 
the  Conte  de  Ferrand " 

"  Dear  Cousin  Pauline,"  I  protested. 

'*  An  old  legitimist  family,"  she  sighed.  "  You 
don't  think,  Clara,  that  a  love  affair  has  anything 
to  do  with  Cyrus's  wanting  to  go  away?  " 

"  He  has  never  told  me  so." 

"  I  used  to  be  afraid  it  might  be  Helen?  " 

"  You  need  not  be,"  said  I,  resentful  for 
Helen. 

*'  Mother  dear,"  said  Lucian  gently,  *'  don't  you 
see  it's  the  world's  muddle  that's  breaking  his  heart  ? 
He   isn't   made   like  me.     It   exhilarates  me.    My 


ILLUMINATION  215 

dramatic  sense  is  like  a  hard  shell;  things  glance 
off  my  surface.  But  he's  all  exposed.  Let  him 
go!'' 

"  Yes;  but  I  think  there  must  be  something 
personal  as  well,"  she  reiterated.  "  It  is  unnatural 
to  be  so  depressed  over  other  people's  misfortunes." 

Lucian's  burst  of  laughter  bewildered  her. 

"  If  any  one  could  find  out,  I  suppose  it  is  Clara,'* 
she  said  rather  grudgingly. 

I  did  not  offer  to  try. 

"  Helen  and  I  are  not  simpatica,"  she  sighed;  '*  but 
even  if  it  were  Helen — I  want  him  to  have  what  he 
wants.  What  else  do  I  live  for?  I  want  you  all  to 
have  what  you  want,  dear  children." 

*'  Then  let  him  go,"  I  pleaded. 

"  You  know,  mother,"  warned  Lucian,  "  he  can 
go  without  asking." 

"If  it  should  be  a  religious  mania,"  the  marchese 
said  without  looking  round. 

*'  I  don't  think  I  catch  your  point,  sir."  Lucian's 
voice  was  cold. 

"  In  your  mother's  interest,  my  dear  Lucian,  I 
should  protest  if  the  money  went  to  the  Vatican." 

"Oh,  the  money!"  Nothing  could  exceed 
Lucian's  bored  scorn. 

My  Cousin  Pauline  cast  a  deprecatory  glance  at 
the  marchese's  expressive  Italian  shoulders,  and 
murmured  something  about  stewardship. 

And  Cyrus,  standing  in  the  doorway,  said: — 

"  If  it's  the  money  that  bothers  you — I  plan  to  sell 
all  that  I  have,  and  give  to  the  poor." 

"  Darling,  who  are  the  poor?  "  his  mother  asked 
in  her  most  tenderly  metaphysical  manner, 


2i6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  I  shall  give  some  of  it  to  you,  mother,"  he 
answered  quietly. 

She  coloured  the  least  bit,  and  I  saw  in  her  long 
grey  eyes  the  old  look  of  annoyance  and  distaste. 
"  Dear,  that  is  not  a  pretty  joke,"  she  chided. 

"  Is  it  a  joke?  "  he  inquired.  "  You  know  I  have 
very  little  sense  of  humour." 

"Sit  down,  old  man!"  said  Lucian.  "What  is 
it  you  want  to  do?     Clara  and  I  are  aU  in  the  dark." 

But  Cyrus  stood  where  he  was,  looking  off  into  a 
dream,  with  that  pale  gaze  of  his. 

"  I  have  told  mother,"  he  began  presently.  "  I 
want  to  go  away — alone.  I  suppose  philosophically 
it  would  be  called  renouncing  civilisation " 

"  If  you  can,"  I  suggested. 

"  If  I  can."     He  made  the  admission  tranquilly. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  isn't  the  coward's  way  ?  " 
asked  Lucian. 

"  No ;  I  am  not  sure.  Almost  every  one  else  whom 
I  know  seems  to  me  self-deceived  on  one  point  or 
another.  Why  not  I?  But  my  conscious  motive 
is  not  one  of  escape.  If  by  wearing  this  Nessus  shirt  " 
— ^he  plucked  at  his  rather  rusty  tweeds — "  I  could 
break  the  economic  spell  that  binds  those  who  wove 
it;  if  the  blood  and  death  that  saturate  these  clothes 
could  make  a  proper  scapegoat  of  me — what  a 
privilege  to  be  sprinkled  and  stained!  But  there  is 
no  atoning  power  in  these  garments  of  degradation; 
they  are  the  grave-clothes  of  unrepented  sin." 

The  contrast  between  the  passionate  words  and  the 
unemotional  voice  gave  one  a  lump  in  one's  throat. 
My  Cousin  Pauline  wrung  off  her  gloves  as  if  they 
hurt  her.    The  marchese  had  turned  his  back  on 


ILLUMINATION  217 

Mont  Blanc.  Uncle  Lew,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  arms 
streaming  with  gaUey  proof,  suddenly  bolted  into  the 
room,  with: — 

"  Say,  Lucian,  this  leader  runs  over  half  a  column; 
how  many  adjectives  will  you  sacrifice?  "  And  then, 
"  Excuse  me!  **  as  he  discovered  us  all. 

"Don't  go!"  Cyrus  said,  putting  out  a  hand. 
"  You  wiU  know  what  I  mean.  The  world  is 
possessed  of  a  devil." 

"Sure  thing!"  agreed  Uncle  Lew.  He  hitched 
himself  upon  the  comer  of  Lucian's  desk,  one  leg 
swinging,  the  proof-sheets  crushed  against  his  breast. 

"  What  if  this  kind  cometh  out  only  by  prayer  and 
fasting?  "  said  Cyrus. 

"  Well,  you  know,"  Uncle  Lew  acknowledged 
awkwardly,  "I'm  not  much  of  a  thinker.  I  always 
have  believed  in  prayer.  I  pray  for  rain.  Its 
unscientific,  they  tell  me." 

"  I  touch  reahty  when  I  pray,  never  else,"  said 
Cyrus.  "  You  ask  me  to  find  reality  by  signing 
cheques;  to  cast  out  the  devil  by  subscribing  to  Fresh 
Air  Funds  and  Strikers'  Relief;  by  endowing  Old 
Ladies'  Homes  and  Professorships  of  Economics " 

"  Not  I,"  protested  Lucian.     "  No  Socialist  does." 

"  But  Socialism  is  the  most  unreal  thing  of  all, 
brother.  A  strait  jacket  for  a  world  possessed.  Can 
you  not  see  the  creature  writhe  and  shriek  and  foam 
at  the  mouth,  until  the  bonds  are  burst?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Lew.  "  There's  got  to  be  the 
change  of  heart  to  correspond " 

"  And  the  conditions  will  prepare  the  way  for  the 
change  of  heart,"  Lucian  interrupted. 

"  The  conditions  necessary  for  a  change  of  heart 


2i8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

are  conviction  of  sin,  and  repentance,"  his  brother 
replied.  "  Not  the  socialisation  of  property  and  a 
full  belly." 

"  Dearest "  murmured  my  Cousin  Pauline. 

'*  I'm  not  so  sure,"  retorted  Lucian.  "  It  was  a 
full  belly  that  convicted  me  of  sin." 

"  Darlings!  "  the  murmur  came  again. 

"  Still,  it  didn't  me,"  Uncle  Lew  mused.  "  I 
wonder  if  we  can  generalise?  " 

"  It  didn't  me,"  said  I. 

"  Christ  and  St.  Francis  convicted  me  of  sin," 
Cyrus  said.     "  By  prayer  and  fasting." 

"No;    by  their  life — their  actions,"  Lucian  cried. 

"  Action  that  is  not  prayer  is  never  real,"  his 
brother  answered.  "  They  knew  how  to  pray.  Let 
me  go  away,  mother,  and  learn  of  them.  We  shall 
never  get  a  real  world  except  by  prayer." 

"Let  the  boy  go,  marchese!  "  said  Uncle  Lew 
gravely.  "  I  wish  he  were  my  boy."  He  was  on 
his  way  to  the  door,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  Cyrus's 
shoulder  in  passing. 

My  Cousin  Pauline  hesitated,  impressed.  "  Of 
course,  I  shall  be  led,"  she  faltered. 

"  Just  so  you're  sure  of  your  leader,  that's  all," 
said  Uncle  Lew.  "  It's  risky  sinning  against  the 
Holy  Ghost." 

"He  is  very  bizarre,  that  good  fellow,"  observed 
the  marchese  appreciatively,  when  the  door  had 
closed. 

"  I  don't  think  I  quite  caught  his  meaning,"  said 
my  Cousin  Pauline.  "  But  Cyrus  knows  that  the 
last  thing  in  the  world  that  I  want  to  do  is  to  thwart 
him  in  the  service  of  humanity.    When  you  were 


ILLUMINATION  219 

little  boys,  you  and  Cyrus,  did  I  not  dedicate  you  to 
the  service  of  humanity  ?  Did  I  not  dedicate  myself  ? 
Do  I  not  take  up  some  philanthropic  work  wherever 
I  happen  to  be?  Even  on  the  steamer  coming  over 
this  last  time,  we  read  the  Idylls  of  the  King  to  the 
steerage  one  afternoon.  But  to  say  you  are  serving 
humanity  by  trying  to  overturn  the  institutions  that 
supply  you  with  your  funds  of  stewardship — as  you 
and  Clara  are  doing — or  by  running  away  from  the 
suffering  thousands  that  cry  to  you  for  help,  as 
Cyrus " 

Cyrus  shook  his  head.  "No;  it  is  because  I  want 
to  get  near  to  them,  mother.  I  have  tried  your  way. 
I  have  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf  and  flung  in  philan- 
thropic doles.  And  the  gulf  only  widens.  Helen 
builds  bridges,  but  the  bank  caves  in.  Lucian  and 
Clara  hang  their  castle  in  the  air  above  the  gulf — a 
mirage.  I  want  to  try  a  new  way.  I  want  to  go 
into  the  gulf;  to  lose  myself  in  it.'* 

My  Cousin  PauHne  caught  his  hand  and  clung  to 
his  sleeve.  "  No,  no !  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  won't  let  you!  "  she  cried. 

"  I  only  want  to  say  my  prayers.  So  simple, 
mother!  " 

**  Oh,  but,  darling,  you  could  go  to  the  theological 
seminary,  and  afterwards  have  a  parish,  and  we'd 
build  a  big  parish  house  with  a  roof  garden,  and  you 
could  marry  some  nice  girl " 

Standing  impassive  in  her  grasp,  looking  beyond 
us  all,  he  shook  his  head. 

"  You  have  some  dreadful  ceUbate  notion  about 
marriage  being  wrong — and  there  is  a  girl,  I  know 
there  is  a  girl,"  she  wailed.     "It  is  like  your  vege- 


220  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

tarianism.  I  know  you  won't  talk  to  me  about  such 
things :  you  never  will.  But  talk  to  Clara,  dearest " 

He  looked  at  his  mother  then :  so  strangely. 

"  Clara,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  can  argue  and  I  can't; 
he  will  listen  to  you '* 

"  Celibacy  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  mother,"  he 
said. 

"  But  there  is  a  girl,  Cyrus,"  she  persisted. 
"Clara,  isn't  there?  You  are  running  away  from 
some  girl " 

"  Mother — really "  objected  Lucian. 

"  But  do  you  know  that  he  wants  to  go  away  now 
— to-morrow,  or  next  day? "  cried  my  Cousin 
Pauline.  "  The  strike  means  nothing  to  him — ^the 
election — nothing ' ' 

"  The  strike  will  not  be  won  by  the  funds  that  I 
subscribe,"  C5mis  explained  wearily. 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?  "his  mother  continued. 
— "  No  one  is  to  ask.  Your  master,  Tolstoy,  does 
not  carry  things  to  such  extremes.  He  thinks  of  his 
loved  ones;   he  crushes  his  individual  preferences." 

"  Tolstoy  is  not  my  master,  mother.  Christ  is 
my  master.  I  beHeve  that  Tolstoy  knows  he  is 
sinning  against  love  in  not  pushing  his  convictions  to 
their  extremes.     I  believe  that  is  his  tragedy." 

"  Your  arrogance  grieves  me  immeasmrably,  Cyrus, 
Your  self-deception  is  monstrous.  Because  of  a 
boyish  infatuation  for  some  girl  who  is  evidently 
unsuitable,  or  who  is  playing  with  you  and  keeping 
you  on  tenterhooks,  you  wish  to  break  my  heart  and 
make  your  family  notorious.  And  to  justify  your- 
self you  say, '  I  must  go  because  I  am  holy — as  holy  as 
St.  Francis — holier  than  Tolstoy.    I  am  the  modem 


ILLUMINATION  221 

saint  and  the  world  waits  for  my  prayers,  to  be 
saved/  " 

"  Mother,  how  dare  you!  "  Lucian  had  bounded 
from  his  chair,  his  face  scarlet,  his  eyes  two  swords 
of  anger. 

'*  I  had  not  thought  of  it  that  way,"  said  Cyrus, 
with  bent  head.  "  You  may  be  right.  I  wish  I 
knew." 

"  Well,  I  know!  "  shouted  Lucian.  "  And  you  are 
going." 

"Oh,  Lucian! — Oh,  Lucian!"  said  Cyrus,  and 
took  his  brother's  clenched  hands.  I  shall  always 
be  glad  I  saw  them  look  at  each  other  Uke  that.  Then 
Cyrus  said,  so  sadly,  "  But  it  is  I  who  must  make  the 
decision." 

"  Mother,  take  back  what  you  said!  "  cried  Lucian. 
"  You  had  no  right " 

"  A  mother  has  always  the  right  to  rebuke  her  son," 
observed  the  marchese  sententiously.  "  No  son  is 
ever  justified  in  addressing  his  mother  as  you 
have  allowed  yourself  to  address  your  mother.  In 
Italy " 

"  But  this  is  our  harsh  America,  carino."  My 
Cousin  Pauline  turned  her  tear-brimmed  eyes  upon 
her  husband  gratefully. 

"  I  apologise  for  raising  my  voice,"  said  Lucian. 
"  I  lost  my  temper.  But  you  know,  mother — we 
all  know,  that  this  talk  about  a  girl  is  absurd.  If  it 
were  I — but  women  never  exist  for  Cyrus — as 
women." 

Why  this  remark  impelled  me  to  take  up  the 
cudgels  for  Cyrus  I  do  not  quite  know;  but  I  said — 
"  Is  that  the  sort  of  assumption  we  have  the  right  to 


222  THE  CHILDREi^  OF  LIGHT 

make  about  other  people,  Lucian?  "  And  was  im- 
mediately annoyed  \vith  myself,  for  Lucian  gave  me  a 
swift,  startled  look. 

"  If  I  knew  that  it  was  cowardice,"  said  Cyrus,  and 
turning  to  me  slowly  he  let  his  eyes  rest  in  mine — 
"  If  I  knew  I  ought  to  stay,  I  hope  I  should  stay, 
whatever  it  cost  me.  But  I  think  I  ought  to  go. — 
I  wish  I  knew."  And  wheeUng  round  to  his  mother, 
he  added,  "  I  will  not  go — yet." 

And  his  mother  began  to  sob  on  the  marchese's 
shoulder.  And  Lucian  stood  rooted,  looking  thought- 
fully, with  grave,  troubled  eyes,  at  his  brother,  and 
at  me,  and  back  again  at  his  brother. 

When  Lazarus  Samson's  brisk  rap  at  the  door 
shattered  oiu:  silence,  I  hurried  across  the  room 
before  he  could  enter,  to  ask  him  to  delay  the  staff 
meeting  five  minutes.  And  presently,  Lucian  and 
Cyrus  went  down  to  the  door  with  my  Cousin  Pauline 
and  the  marchese,  and  inducted  them  fiHaUy  into  the 
motor. 


IV 

Lucian  and  Uncle  Lew  and  I  had  a  very  high 
standard  for  The  Torch,  I  think  we  all  three 
cherished  the  hope,  unacknowledged,  that  it  might 
be  the  model  for  millennial  journalism.  But  Lazarus 
Samson  and  Cuthbert  were  working  for  immediate 
results  in  a  partisan  present.  Impeccable  EngHsh, 
imerring  taste,  a  morale  without  blemish,  were  not 
germane  to  their  ideal. 

We  aU  made  concessions.  Uncle  Lew  made  the 
most,  I  think;  yet,  curiously  enough,  he  got  his  way 


ILLUMINATION  223 

oftener  than  the  rest  of  us.  I  got  my  way,  too,  a 
good  many  times,  but  not  so  unobtrusively.  Cuth- 
bert  and  I  fought  three  weeks  over  the  spurious  verb 
"  to  enthuse,"  I  remember.  Uncle  Lew  was  for 
letting  him  have  it;  but  I  couldn't.  Over  questions 
of  policy  we  were  less  venomous,  possibly,  though 
no  less  rigid.  Socialism,  for  Lazarus  Samson, 
included  the  abolition  of  the  marriage-tie  and  the 
repudiation  of  Christianity.  He  could  be  pinned 
down  in  argument  and  made  to  acknowledge  that  the 
economic  theory  did  not  cover  these  issues,  but  his 
European  tradition  inhibited  him  from  conceiving 
social  revolt  as  apart  from  them.  He  was  for  ever 
bringing  in  translations  of  French,  or  Italian,  or 
German  diatribes  against  ecclesiasticism — material 
without  point  for  an  untrammelled  American  pro- 
letariat. If  we  refused  to  print  a  crude  attack  upon 
the  Church,  signed  by  An  Atheist,  he  could  not  divest 
himself  of  the  idea  that  we  were  throttling  freedom 
of  speech.  His  attitude  towards  the  Holy  State  of 
Matrimony  was  equally  advanced,  though  not  so 
bitter.  When  even  Cuthbert  voted  against  a 
Socialistic  serial  whose  Socialism  was  the  sketchiest 
mise  en  scene  for  the  erotic  vagaries  of  the  heroine, 
Lazarus  acquiesed  with  an  amused  and  scornful 
smile,  and,  respecting  our  Anglo-Saxon  reticence, 
did  not  press  for  reasons;  but  when  I  pleaded  for  the 
suppression  of  a  spicy  correspondence  between 
"  Christian  "  and  "  Free  Thinker,"  after  the  argu- 
ment had  endured  for  three  weeks  and  the  letters 
had  attained  the  length  of  five  columns,  his  sarcasm 
slipped  the  leash;  he  smiled  as  always,  but  a  smile 
with  edges. 


224  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

I  sometimes  speculated  uneasily  upon  his  relations 
with  Bertha  Aarons,  although  Helen,  who  saw  them 
together  oftener  than  I  did,  was  reassuring. 

**  She's  ready  for  anything,  of  coiurse,"  I  remember 
Helen's  saying.  **  But  he's  not  hving  in  Russia,  or 
in  Paris,  and  he  knows  it.  He  has  no  intention  of 
shocking  any  of  our  sensibihties."  At  this  point  we 
had  veered  off  into  an  altercation  on  the  nature  of 
love. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  strike,  however,  Helen 
and  I  had  had  no  opportunity  for  discussion,  abstract 
or  personal.  Her  interpretation  of  Lazarus's  emo- 
tions, now  that  Tristram  Lawrence  was  a  factor 
in  the  situation — if  he  were  a  factor — I  could  only 
infer  from  her  zeal  in  chaperoning  Bertha  and 
Tristram  whenever  opportunity  offered,  and  from 
the  way  in  which  her  eyebrows  tilted  at  me  across 
the  room  when  she  wanted  me  to  spoil  a  tete-d,-Ute, 
I  wondered  now,  as  I  waited  in  Lucian's  office  for  the 
postponed  conference,  if  I  ought  to  have  set  aside 
editorial  exigencies  and  gone  to  lunch  with  those  two. 

The  door  was  ajar,  and  Lazarus  sUpped  in  and  sat 
down  on  the  fat  edge  of  the  leather  Davenport;  he 
had  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  most  things,  being  a  Httle 
man.  He  said  nothing,  only  sat  there  upright,  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  his  face  fixed  in  thought,  strangely 
unsmiHng.  I  busied  myself  with  proof  sheets;  but 
that  still,  inward  look  drew  my  eyes  again  and  again. 

Cuthbert  and  Uncle  Lew  came  in  together,  dis- 
cussing an  undesirable  advertisement.  I  remember 
Cuthbert  was  saying,  "  It  won't  do.  I  was  talking 
about  it  last  night  with  Mendel  of  the  Typographical. 
If  The  Torch  is  going  to  hold  the  proletariat,  it's  got 


ILLUMINATION  225 

to  give  it  the  stuff  it  wants,  advertisements  and  all. 
What  do  our  people  care  for  dinky  arts-and-crafts 
book-binding?  They're  not  buying  editions  de  luxe 
for  their  parlour  tables.  If  we're  giving  away 
advertising  space,  I  say  give  it  to  BebeFs  new  book, 
or  something  of  that  kind  that  hasn't  been  puffed 
the  way  it  deserves.     Who  is  this  fellow?  " 

"  Benacci?  "  I  asked,  looking  up  from  my  proof. 
"  He  does  beautiful  leather  work,  and  he's  having 
such  a  hard  time.  He  was  digging  in  a  sewer.  It 
isn't  a  free  advertisement;  I  will  pay  for  it  if  Lucian 
doesn't.     He's  one  of  Lucian's." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  very  well,"  Cuthbert  grumbled. 
"  It  may  be  settlement  sentiment,  but  it's  not  busi- 
ness. Put  it  in  Lawrence's  dilettante  sheet  if  you 
want  to  spend  money  on  the  Dago;  that's  where  it 
belongs." 

"  I  have,"  I  said,  "  but  it  belongs  in  ours,  too;  we 
are  not  merely  a  proletarian  organ." 

"  We'll  never  get  anywhere  till  we  are,"  he 
muttered. 

"  That's  where  we  differ,"  I  remarked. 

"  Of  course,  I  never  expect  Lucian  to  got  our  point 
of  view,  but  I  did  have  hopes  of  you."  There  was 
a  certain  wist  fulness  underlying  his  retort. 

"  Our  point  of  view?  " 

"  Uncle  Lew's  and  mine — the  Proletarian." 

"  You're  not  making  the  mistake  of  supposing  that 
you  and  I  belong  to  the  Proletariat,  are  you?  " 
queried  Uncle  Lew  with  suspicious  mildness. 

"  I  don't  know  where  else?  "  Cuthbert  answered 
defiantly. 

"  Well— it  begins  with  P  all  right,  but  Parasite's 


226  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

its  name,"   said   Uncle -Lew.     "That's  us.    Don't 
make  any  mistake." 

Lucian  and  Cyrus  came  in  and  shut  the  door  while 
he  was  speaking,  and  Cyrus  sat  down  beside  Lazarus 
on  the  Davenport,  and  leaned  back  wearily. 

'*  You  can  call  yourself  what  you  Uke,"  repUed 
Cuthbert,  his  face  a  sullen  red.  "  But  I  know  where 
I  belong." 

*'  We're  the  paid  employees  of  a  paper  owned  by  a 
capitahst."  Uncle  Lew  cocked  his  head  at  Cuthbert 
and  smiled  his  most  whimsical  smile. 

"  Oh,  dry  up!  "  exploded  Lucian,  making  a  long 
arm  and  unceremoniously  mussing  his  hair.     **  What 

in  thunder " 

"  Then  you  don't  think.  Uncle  Lew,  that  an  indi- 
vidual can  have  the  Proletarian  point  of  view  without 
belonging  to  the  Proletariat?  "  I  asked. 

"  WeU,  I  like  to  think  so,"  Uncle  Lew  admitted,  the 
irrepressible  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  But  then  what's 
the  matter  with  sympathising  with  Benacci,  who 
does  belong  to  the  Proletariat,  and  no  question,  even 
if  he  can  bind  books  by  hand." 

"Stung!"  said  Cuthbert.  "You  can  have  the 
advertisement."  And  he  laughed  shamefacedly  at 
Uncle  Lew. 

"Oh,  Benacci?"  Lucian  asked.  "Yes;  charge 
that  up  to  me.    Whose  is  the  next  grievance?  " 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  go  over  those  statistics  if  you 
have  the  proof  handy,"  suggested  Cyrus.  "  It  won't 
take  more  thcin  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  then  I'll 
leave  you  to  your  editorial  secrets." 

We  laughed  at  that,  complimenting  his  discretion. 
"  The  boy's  bringing  them,"  said  Uncle  Lew.     "  I 


ILLUMINATION  227 

guess  you'll  have  to  wait.  We'll  trust  you  as  you're 
just  off  for  the  wilderness." 

"  Not  yet,"  Cyrus  smiled. 

"  You  make  a  mistake  not  to  go,  Cyrus."  Uncle 
Lew's  eyes  were  grave. 

"  I  need  to  be  under  authority,  I  know,"  Cyrus  said. 
"  I  shall  never  accomplish  anything  until  I  am.  But 
I'm  not — yet;  so  I  must  decide,  or  undecide,  as  best 
I  can,  a  while  longer." 

Cuthbert  and  Lazarus  were  looking  at  him 
curiously. 

"  Then  we'll  skip  the  statistics  for  the  moment,'* 
said  Lucian,  "  and  take  up  our  quarrel  over  the 
Reform  candidate  where  we  left  off  last  time.  Miss 
Emery's  got  it  in  for  you  and  me,  Cuthbert;  she 
doesn't  like  your  tone  in  your  report  of  the  last 
Reform  rally,  and  she's  afraid  my  editorial  will  hurt 
Trissy's  feehngs.  And  as  for  Lazarus's  critique  of 
his  literary  output  up  to  date,  including  the  Persian 
Love  Songs — she  calls  it  a  savage  attack." 

"It  is,"  Lazarus  agreed,  smiling  grimly. 

I  explained  that  Mr.  Lawrence  seemed  to  me  too 
prominent  in  the  number;  that  it  was  a  strike  number 
and  its  readers  would  not  be  interested,  primarily,  in 
belles-lettres  or  Reform  politics. 

"  Unless  we  can  point  out  the  connection  between 
belles-lettres  and  Reform  politics,  and  the  strike,  which 
you  can't  deny  we  do,"  interrupted  Lucian. 

"  One  would  think  we  had  a  personal  grudge  against 
him,"  I  protested. 

There  was  self-conscious  silence  and  no  dis- 
claimer. 

"  What    you    would    like,"    grunted    Cuthbert, 


228  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

presently,  "  would  be  a  merger  between  the 
Socialists  and  the  Reformers,  and  me  to  step  down  in 
favour  of  Tristram  Lawrence.  But  the  party  don't 
work  things  that  way.  And  if  The  Torch  is  for 
Socialism  it  can't  at  the  same  time  support  the 
competitive  system — which  is  what  Lawrence  stands 
for." 

"  I  do  not  wish  a  merger,"  I  contradicted  with 
undue  heat.  "  I  am  just  as  keen  on  exposing  the 
evils  of  the  competitive  system  as  any  of  you;  but 
I  see  no  reason  why  The  Torch  should  stoop  to 
personalities." 

"  Of  course,  your  own  attitude  toward  Mr. 
Lawrence  is  not  colomred  by  personal  feeling," 
Lucian  suggested. 

**  Because  I  am  still  able  to  remember  that  he  is 
a  scholar  and  an  honourable  gentleman,  and  very 
much  in  earnest,  even  though  he  does  not  happen  to 
be  fighting  on  our  side  ?  " 

"  In  what  sense  do  you  use  the  term  '  honourable 
gentleman?  '  "  inquired  Lazarus. 

"  In  every  sense." 

His  face  was  impassive  and  he  did  not  pursue  the 
inquiry.     We  all  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

"  If  we  must  bring  poUtics  into  this  strike  edition," 
I  continued,  "  why  not  expend  oiu:  ammunition  on 
the  machine  candidate  and  his  method  of  raising 
campaign  funds?  " 

"  Of  course,  there  are  no  personalities  involved  in 
that  story,"  remarked  Lucian. 

I  laughed.  He  had  me  there.  "  Still,  there  is  a 
difference,"  I  insisted. 

"  You    mean,"    cried    Lazarus,    "  that    for    the 


ILLUMINATION  229 

machine  candidate  to  call  himself  the  friend  of  the 
working-man  and  to  get  campaign  funds  from  those 
sweat-shop  manufacturers  that  are  to  blame  for  this 
strike,  is  more  worse  than  for  the  Reform  candidate 
to  tell  the  strikers  that  he  is  all  for  pushing  the  label, 
on  the  quiet — when  his  party  is  for  the  open 
shop?'* 

"What's  that?" 

"Who  gave  you  that?" 

Lucian  and  Cuthbert  plunged  toward  the  Daven- 
port. 

"  He  may  not  realise  all  that  the  label  means," 
said  Uncle  Lew. 

"  Hot  air  won't  get  him  the  strike  vote,"  sneered 
Cuthbert.  "  And  he  can't  do  anything;  because  if 
he  don't  know  what  the  label  means,  the  merchants 
do;  they're  not  going  to  let  themselves  in  for  a  row 
with  the  manufacturers." 

"I  get  the  impression  he  thinks  he  can  swing  his 
party,"  said  Lazarus.  "  If  he  says  to  the  strikers, 
'  See  how  hard  I  try  to  get  the  closed  shop  for  you ! 
See  how  I  am  willing  to  be  unpopular  with  my  own 
constituency  for  the  sake  to  improve  your  conditions ! ' 
and  to  the  merchants  he  gives  the  wink,  that  he  don't 
expect  any  concessions  from  them — then  he  thinks 
he  gets  the  strike  vote,  and  he  don't  lose  the  merchants' 
vote;  and  his  party  smiles  and  says,  '  You  observe 
how  we  are  open-minded.  Our  candidate  lets  us  in 
for  more  than  we  expected;  we  do  not  go  with  him 
all  the  way;  but  the  situation  is  unprecedented — 
he  must  have  a  free  hand;   he  is  a  philanthropist.'  " 

"Gee,  what  a  scoop!"  gloated  Cuthbert.  "It'll 
queer  him  with  the  working-class  vote,  and  with  the 


230  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

moral  high-brows;  and  with  his  party,  too — they'll 
have  to  repudiate  him  to  save  their  face." 

"But  we  aren't  going  to  print  it!"  I  cried, 
horrified.  *'  Mr.  Samson,  you  must  have  got  your 
hint  of  the  situation  from  Miss  Aarons;  but  I  know 
she  thinks  he  will  be  honest  if  he  consents  to  approach 
his  merchant-backers.  He  hadn't  consented  this 
morning." 

*'  I  do  not  know  what  Miss  Aarons  thinks.  She  is 
a  deep  thinker,"  he  replied  pohtely. 

*'  What  she  thinks  doesn't  cut  any  ice,"  Cuthbert 
exclaimed.     "  We've  got  the  story." 

"  My  God,  folks!  "  said  Uncle  Lew,  "  this  isn't  a 
game  of  checkers.  If  he  could  convert  his  party  to 
the  label,  think  what  it  would  mean  for  the  strikers! 
The  strike  would  be  off  in  forty-eight  hours." 

Lucian  sat  with  his  head  bent,  drawing  circles  on 
his  blotter. 

**  Lucian,"  Uncle  Lew  said,  *'  you  won't  stand  for 
this?  " 

And  Lucian  looked  up  at  Uncle  Lew,  and  then  at 
his  brother.  "  I  want  to,"  he  said  to  Cyrus. 
Cyrus's  head  moved  a  scarcely  perceptible  No,  and 
a  Httle,  tender  smile  shadowed  his  Hps  for  the 
briefest  moment. 

"  I  want  to,"  Lucian  said  to  me,  defiantly.  *'  Dio 
mio — how  I  want  to  1  "  And  to  the  others,  "  FeUows, 
you  know  I  want  to ;  but  it's  not  a  gentleman's  game." 

**  I'm  not  a  gentleman,"  Cuthbert  proclaimed 
hardily.  But  he  hadn't  hked  to  have  me  tell  him  so, 
the  night  that  he  walked  home  with  me. 

'*  The  instincts  of  the  primitive  man  are  the  sane 
instincts,  in  crises,"  Lazarus  stated  coldly. 


ILLUMINATION  231. 

"  Am  I  right  that  the  vote  stands  three  to  two 
against  printing?  "  asked  Lucian,  looking  from  me 
to  Uncle  Lew.^"  Then  suppose  we  take  up  next 
the  article  on  Syndicalism.  The  question  is,  how 
much  shall  we  take  the  public  into  our  confidence 
as  to  the  preparations  for  the  general  sympathetic 
strike?  " 

"  I  say  tell  all  we  know/'  Lazarus  suggested. 
**  The  capitalist  won't  believe  it  even  if  he  reads  it; 
and  the  working-man,  he  needs  to  be  put  wise." 

"  At  Socialist  headquarters  they  recommend  a 
certain  degree  of  reticence,"  Lucian  reminded  him. 

But  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  follow  the  discussion 
very  closely.  My  mind  would  insist  upon  reverting 
to  Bertha  and  Tristram,  and  to  his  equivocal  remark 
about  the  label.  Had  he  realised  that  it  was 
equivocal  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 

EXPLOSION 

Two  weeks  before  the  elections  the  general  sym- 
pathetic strike  was  called.  It  began  on  a  Wednesday, 
I  remember,  and  there  was  some  discussion  in  the 
Central  Labour  Union  as  to  whether  the  printers 
should  go  out  or  not;  whether  it  would  be  more 
effective  to  give  the  pubhc  the  news  of  the  fight,  or 
to  leave  it  in  ignorance,  groping  helplessly  for  in- 
formation. But  when  they  had  got  the  Wednesday 
afternoon  editions  off  the  presses  and  into  the  streets, 
the  printers  struck  work;  and  with  them  The  Torch's 
men,  of  course.  After  Thursday,  other  cities  sent 
down  reporters  to  glean,  but  the  poor  fellows  had  a 
hard  time  getting  their  stories  home,  for  the  telegraph 
operators  were  out  with  the  rest  and  from  the  start 
the  railway  traffic  was  so  blocked — the  depots  and 
freight  sheds  were  so  choked  with  goods,  perishable 
and  other,  which  the  striking  teamsters  refused  to 
haul  away — that  the  reaction  on  the  mail  and 
passenger  trains  was  inevitable,  and  they  gave  up  all 
attempt  to  keep  to  schedule. 

We  saved  the  milk  for  the  babies.  That  was 
Helen's  scheme.  Ten  of  the  members  of  the  settle- 
ment committee,  who  could  run  their  own  motor  cars 
— the  chauffeurs  were  out — met  the  milk  train  on 
Thursday  morning,  gave  vouchers  to  the  frantic 
milk  dealers,   divided  the  city  into   districts,   and 

232 


EXPLOSION  233 

peddled  the  milk.  Friday  morning  there  were  fifty 
gentlemen  with  as  many  automobiles,  volunteering 
for  milk  routes.  But  the  meat  in  the  cold  storage 
cars  spoiled  on  the  sidings  for  lack  of  ice;  and  the 
cattle  and  live-stock  in  the  freight  pens  squealed  and 
grunted  and  starved,  for  the  stockyards  were  closed 
and  there  was  no  one  to  put  them  out  of  their 
misery. 

Unorganised  labour  reaped  what  harvest  it  could. 
The  small  provision  and  fruit  shops,  family  affairs 
run  by  Greeks  or  Italians,  profited  most  by  the 
situation.  The  larger  groceries  and  markets,  as  well 
as  some  of  the  hardware  and  drug  stores,  found 
themselves  unexpectedly  blocked  by  the  Retail 
Clerks  Benefit  Association,  a  benevolent  organisation 
not  hitherto  allied  with  the  union  labour,  which  now 
declared  its  sympathy  with  the  Garment  Workers 
by  joining  the  general  strike. 

Factories  shut  down  all  over  the  city  and  in  the 
suburbs,  and  at  the  request  of  the  Citizens'  Reform 
League  the  mayor  closed  the  saloons,  the  unions 
applauding.  Trolley  cars  had  vanished  at  midnight 
on  the  Tuesday.  Public  cabs  were  out  of  commission 
by  Wednesday  noon.  Thereafter,  through  all  the 
waiting  days  and  nights  that  followed,  only  the  men 
who  owned  their  vehicles  drove  in  our  city,  and  those 
chose  the  less-frequented  streets.  Along  the  main 
thoroughfares  great  crowds  stagnated.  They  moved, 
these  multitudes,  but  with  a  glacial  slowness;  and 
their  eyes  were  as  the  eyes  of  sleep-walkers.  At 
intervals  the  mounted  police  rode  through  their 
midst,  huddling  them  to  right  and  left.  When  one 
heard  those  wild,  relentless  hoof-beats  coming,  one's 


234  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

heart  stopped  a  moment;  one  thought  of  the 
avalanche.     Had  it  come? 

At  headquarters  the  leaders  of  the  strike  sat  in 
endless  committee.  Every  day — almost  every  hour 
— some  one  conferred  with  some  one  else:  the  Pre- 
sident of  the  Central  Labour  Union  with  the  Mayor; 
the  Mayor  with  the  Governor;  the  Mayor  with  the 
Chief  of  Police;  the  officers  of  the  National  Federa- 
tion of  Labour  with  the  officers  of  the  State  Federa- 
tion; the  State  Federation  with  the  Head  of  the 
Garment  Workers,  with  the  Teamsters,  with  the  Tin 
Plate  Workers,  with  the  Shoe  Operatives;  the 
Citizens'  Reform  League  with  the  Head  of  the  Gar- 
ment Workers;  the  Head  of  the  Garment  Workers 
with  the  Citizens'  Reform  League.  The  President  of 
the  A.B.  &  C.R.R.  with  the  Mayor.  The  Presidents 
of  the  D.E.  &  F.  and  the  G.H.  &  LR.R.'s  with  the 
President  of  the  A.B.  &  C;  the  Citizens'  Reform 
League  with  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Bishop  of  the 
Diocese;  the 'Citizens'  Reform  League  with  the  heads 
of  social  settlements,  with  the  Young  Men's  Chris- 
tian Association,  with  the  Consumers'  League;  the 
Machine  candidate  with  the  Reform  candidate;  the 
Suffragists  with  the  Garment  Workers;  the  President 
of  the  United  States  with  the  Secretary  of  War. 
And  so  on  indefinitely. 

In  the  public  squares  the  police  were  kept  busy 
suppressing  stump  orators.  Here  the  Sociahsts  got 
their  innings.  Processions  had  a  way  of  forming, 
unexpectedly,  headed  by  haggard  foreigners  who 
sang  the  Internationale  or  the  Marseillaise.  Once 
some  women  smashed  the  windows  of  a  chocolate 
factory  where  a  few  scabs  were  working.     After  the 


EXPLOSION  235 

first  two  or  three  days  there  began  to  be  outbreaks 
of  rowdyism,  for  which  the  strikers  bore  the  blame. 
Once  or  twice  the  poHce  lost  their  heads,  and  cracked 
other  people's,  not  wisely  but  too  well.  One  man  died. 
At  night  there  was  thievery  in  dark  streets,  and  even 
occasional  house-breaking.  As  the  days  passed  there 
was  a  subtle  change  in  the  temper  of  the  waiting,  idle 
throngs;  something  fierce  and  ugly  threatened  in  those 
watchful  eyes. 

**  It  is  because  they  know  they  are  not  going  to  hold 
out,"  Helen  said.  "  No,  Mr.  Polotsky,  no  bread 
to-day.  Stale? — No;  I  wish  we  had.  Nor  any 
codfish.  I'm  sorry.  The  wholesale  provision  men 
have  no  teams,  you  know.  We  only  get  what  can 
be  brought  here  from  the  train  yards  by  private 
automobile." 

Helen  and  I  were  giving  out  rations  in  one  of  the 
commissary  stores  that  had  been  established  earlier 
in  the  garment  strike.  But  we  had  had  no  new 
supplies  for  two  days,  and  the  shelves  of  the  shop 
were  almost  bare.  Men  and  women  stood  about, 
silent,  listless,  holding  their  commissary  tickets  in 
their  hands. 

"  They're  not  the  stuff  that  wins,"  Helen  went  on. 
*'  And  they  are  beginning  to  suspect  it.  They're 
soft  yet.  It  will  take  another  generation,  or  maybe 
two,  to  produce  the  kind  of  men  and  women  that  can 
win  a  general  strike.  What  discipline  have  these 
people  had?     No;   no  more  macaroni.     Too  bad!  " 

"  What  discipline  had  the  mob  had  in  the  French 
Revolution?  "  I  asked.     "  But  they  hung  on." 

"  Why,  the  discipline  of  want,  my  dear.  They 
had  come  to  the  point  where  they  had  nothing  more 


236  THE  CHILDREl^  OF  LIGHT 

to  lose.  Ours  are  not  there  yet.  The  job  waits, 
tantalising.  Until  they  can  turn  their  back  on  it,  or, 
better  still,  starve  with  it  hanging,  tempting,  two 
inches  above  their  noses,  there's  nothing  for  them  but 
failure." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  they  are  giving  in  at  union 
headquarters,  after  only  three  days?  " 

"  Not  at  headquarters,  naturally."  Helen  was 
our  delegate  to  the  Central  Labour  Organisation 
from  the  Women's  Trade  Union  League.  "  But  the 
leaders  can't  hold  them  in  if  they  stampede." 

"Stampede;    after  only  three  days?  " 

*'  Well,  if  you  could  hear  the  weak-kneed  delegates 
wrangling,  you  would  think  so.  There's  no  use 
looking  so  mournful,  Clara;  you  ought  to  know  by 
this  time  that  the  rank  and  file  of  trade  unionists  are 
not  built  on  heroic  lines.  Did  you  really  think,  for 
one  moment,  that  they  could  win  a  general  strike?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  murmured.     "  Didn't  you?  " 

She  laughed.  "  I  thought  they  might  win  a  con- 
cession or  two — nothing  very  definite — if  they  didn't 
aUenate  the  public  altogether;  which  is  what  they 
are  in  a  fair  way  to  do  now,  by  their  rowdyism." 

"  Not  their  rowdyism." 

"  As  long  as  they  can't  control  it,  it  will  lie  at  their 
door.  Not  that  I  think  we're  at  the  end  of  our  rope 
yet.  The  leaders  are  whistUng  very  loud  to  keep 
their  courage  up,  and  the  pubhc  is  still  fooled.  But, 
my  dear.  Capital  isn't  fooled." 

"  Helen,"  I  cried,  "  When  you  say  a  thing  Uke 
that,  I  can't  understand  why  you  are  not  a  Socialist." 

"Dam  Sociahsm!  "  said  Helen.  "What  is  it 
doing  to  help  this  situation?     Butting  in  with  a 


EXPLOSION  237 

candidate  for  mayor  when  it  knows  it  hasn't  a  ghost 
of  a  show,  just  to  make  mischief  and  hand  the  city 
over  to  corruption." 

"  No,  Helen;  that's  not  true.  They  saw  a  chance, 
in  this  strike,  to  increase  their  following " 

"  A  lot  of  cold-blooded  fanatics  trafficking  in  their 
brothers'  misery " 

"  Not  at  all;  they  are  living  for  the  future;  they 
are  far-sighted " 

"  Well,  I'm  near-sighted,  and  Fm  living  right 
now " 

"  And  yet  you  said  yesterday  that  all  these  oppor- 
tunist schemes  for  temporary  relief  were  perfectly 
futile — that  Cyrus's  position  was  the  only  logical 
one:  there's  got  to  be  a  change  of  heart." 

"  But  then,  you  see,  I'm  not  logical,  and — "  her 
voice  softened — "  I'm  not  Cyrus.  I  haven't  a  gift 
for  prayer.     I  can  only  cobble." 

"  What  else  can  any  of  us  do?  But  we  can  have 
the  vision,  too." 

"  I  won't  have  it,  thank  you,  if  it  involves  tactics 
that  sacrifice  the  individual." 

"  Not  when  it  means  the  ultimate  gain  of  the 
individual?     The  law  of  life  is  sacrifice,  Helen." 

*'  Sacrifice  yourself,  and  welcome,  Clara.  But 
who  gives  you  leave  to  sacrifice  me,  or  Bertha 
Aarons,  or  the  forty  thousand  garment  workers,  to 
a  theory?  " 

"  Ah,  but  when  they  are  Socialists  they  will 
sacrifice  themselves,"  I  cried. 

"Yes;  when!  —  Meanwhile,  suppose  you  run 
around  the  comer,  to  number  six  Lincoln  Court,  and 
up  five  flights  to  the  Balderonis'.     They  happen  to 


238  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

be  bur5nng  a  starved  baby  as  a  result  of  the  present 
crisis.  Papa  Balderoni,  aged  twenty-four,  is  a 
Socialist  of  the  most  violent  Italianate  variety.  He 
takes  cocaine,  I  think.  You  won't  love  him  at  first 
sight,  but  poke  the  embers  of  brotherly  love  in  your 
heart  with  the  word  Comrade — oh,  magic  poker  with 
an  insulated  handle  warranted  not  to  bum  the 
fingers! — and  you  may  be  able  to  bring  yourself  to 
the  point  of  lending  him  the  wherewithal  for  the 
next  meal.  If  he  can  find  a  meal  to  buy." 
I  went,  in  a  hurry. 

II 

In  the  three  rooms  of  the  Balderoni  tenement  there 
were  gathered  some  forty  or  fifty  people,  members 
of  the  other  families  Hving  in  the  house,  all  Itahans; 
and,  to  my  surprise,  the  majority  were  men.  Some 
of  the  women  I  knew,  and  they  came  round  me, 
weeping  aloud,  gesticulating,  all  together  explaining 
some  outrage  whose  nature  was  lost  to  me  in  the 
mazes  of  SiciUan  and  Neapolitan  dialects. 

Four  tiny  bright  red  candles,  such  as  one  buys  for 
a  penny  apiece  for  Christmas  trees,  illumined  the 
soap-box  which  was  the  baby's  bier. 

"  But  they  are  not  blessed,  Signorina  ;  che  viwle, 
they  are  not  blessed,"  the  women  wailed. 

The  mother,  kneehng  by  the  baby's  head,  suddenly 
flung  herself  face  downwards  on  the  floor  and  beat 
upon  the  rotten  boards  with  her  hands  and  screamed 
terribly,  so  that  a  number  of  men  who  were  in  the  inner 
room  came  crowding  to  the  door  and  stood  and 
watched  me  as  I  tried  to  lift  her  up.     And  one  of 


EXPLOSION  239 

those  men  was  Lucian.  He  shouldered  his  way  past 
the  others  through  the  door,  and  he  and  I  together 
lifted  the  woman  and  wiped  her  bloody  mouth,  where 
she  had  struck  it  against  the  floor. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  he  said.  "  I  heard  about 
it  through  some  of  the  men  in  the  local.  He  won't 
let  her  have  a  priest  to  bury  the  baby." 

"  He  must!  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  I  think  I'm  talking  him  round.  He  knows 
I  don't  love  the  priests  any  better  than  he  does — 
but  we  must  concede  something  to  the  sensibiHties 
of  our  women — that's  my  tack."  And  in  Italian  to 
the  woman,  "Coraggio/  The  good  God  will  not 
permit  that  the  bambino  be  buried  without  the  rites 
of  the  Church.     Coraggio  !  " 

Her  husband  came  and  stood  above  her,  sullenly. 
"If  he  comes — that  animal — I  do  not  remain. 
Choose!  " 

The  other  women  chorused  their  indignation;  but 
his  wife  only  Hfted  her  streaked  face  and  murmured, 
"  Grazie  !  " 

He  was  a  white-faced,  sickly-looking  young  fellow, 
with  a  twitching  hand  which  he  brushed  frankly, 
now,  across  his  eyes,  as  he  stooped  over  the  baby. 

"  There's  a  vicious  row  threatening,"  Lucian 
whispered  to  me.  I  had  taken  the  woman  into  my 
arms  and  she  was  sobbing  softly,  her  face  buried 
in  my  breast.  "  Poverina,"  said  Lucian,  "  weep, 
weep!  The  bambino  will  await  you  in  the  bosom  of 
God."  And  again,  to  me,  "  There's  a  rumour  that 
the  G.H.  &  I.  railroad  is  bringing  in  a  train-load  of 
strike-breakers  at  midnight,  and  these  fellows  are 
cooking  up  a  riot." 


240  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  O  Signore,"  I  said  to  the  dogged  young  husband, 
**  will  you  not  speak  a  kind  word  to  this  poor  wife 
who  suffers  such  anguish  through  her  love  for  you  and 
your  child?  " 

"  Not  through  me  does  she  suffer,  Signorina,"  the 
man  answered  sulkily,"  but  through  the  superstitions 
of  a  greedy  Church  that  sells  Jesus  Christ  to  the 
people." 

"  Matteo,  God  hears!  Do  not  blaspheme  against 
God!  "  his  wife  cried,  flinging  out  of  my  arms  into 
his. 

"  I  do  not,"  he  said,  not  unkindly.  "  I  blaspheme 
against  the  Church,  which  separates  the  people  from 
God.     Women  do  not  understand  these  things." 

"  Why  not  go  for  a  priest,"  I  suggested  to  Lucian. 

"  Cyrus  has.  Come  over  in  this  comer  while  they 
make  up,  and  let  me  tell  you.  These  men  are 
planning  to  derail  the  track  a  few  miles  out.  Hush, 
don't  say  anything,  don't  look  anything!  Some  of 
them  are  a  part  of  a  gang  that  re-laid  the  track  not  so 
long  ago;  they  know  just  where  they  can  do  most 
mischief.  Don't  get  so  white,  Clara;  nothing  will 
really  happen;  nothing  ever  does.  Would  you 
like  a  glass  of  water,  dear?  " 

"No;   I'm  not  white." 

"  You're  a  lovely  pink,  now."  He  stood  looking 
in  my  face  in  a  way  that  made  me  get  pinker  and 
pinker — as  if  he'd  quite  forgotten  that  he  was 
talking  about  something  else. 

"  What  shall  you  do?  "  I  asked. 

"Do? — Oh! — Help  me  to  think!  It  means  that 
my  day's  work  is  cut  out  for  me;  and  I  had  planned 
something  quite  different.     Uncle  Lew  came  to  the 


EXPLOSION  241 

office  this  morning  chockful  of  a  scheme  to  print  a 
four-page  number  of  The  Torch  on  that  hand-press 
we  bought  with  the  outfit  and  never  use.  I  left  him 
setting  up  type.  Fm  afraid  you'll  have  to  get  it  out 
without  me,  now.  We  can  sell  it  to-morrow  after- 
noon, Sunday,  you  know;  when  everybody  will  be 
hanging  round,  more  than  half  inclined  to  go  to  work 
Monday  morning.  It  may  brace  them  up  and  keep 
them  out  a  bit  longer.*' 

"  ril  go  there  from  here,"  I  said.  "  But  where 
are  you  going?  " 

"  I've  got  to  have  a  little  more  talk  with  these 
fellows  first.  What  would  you  do,  Clara? — inform 
the  police?  "     He  waited,  anxious-eyed. 

"  Must  we  tell  the  poUce?  "  I  questioned.  **  These 
are  our  people.    This  is  our  side  in  this  war " 

"O  Beloved!"  he  said. 

I  suppose  we  were  in  that  little  garlic-reeking 
tenement  room  with  the  dead  baby  and  the  soap-box 
and  the  four  red,  unblessed  candles  and  the  weeping 
father  and  mother.  I  suppose  women  were  moaning 
and  rocking  their  arms.  I  suppose  the  snarling 
wrangle  of  men's  voices  seeped  through  the  door's 
crack  from  the  inner  room,  intermittently.  I  did 
not  hear  any  of  these  things.  I  heard  Lucian  say, 
'*  O  Beloved!  "  and  we  were  looking  at  each  other 
after  that — I  do  not  know  how  long.  My  spirit  and 
Lucian's  had  discovered  that  they  were  one  spirit. 
"  This  is  marriage  and  he  knows,"  my  heart  said. 

But  what  I  said  to  Lucian,  after  the  long  while, 
was — **  How  not  to  betray  them?  We've  got  our 
chance." 

"  The  union  leaders  must  handle  it,"  he  answered 

Q 


242  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

decisively.  *'  It's  their  job.  I'm  going  into  the  other 
room  now,  to  make  these  men  see  it  that  way;  some 
of  them  belong  to  miions — they're  all  sorts.  They've 
got  to  submit  their  plan  to  the  Central  Committee. 
If  this  is  war,  the  head  of  the  army  is  the  one  to  plan 
the  campaign;  enlisted  men  can't  go  off  and  raid  on 
their  own  hook.  And  the  President  of  the  Central 
Labour  Union  will  never  stand  for  train-wrecking; 
that  I  know." 

"  I'll  go  in  with  you,"  I  said. 

"No,  dear,  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

"  They  won't  understand,  Lucian.  Some  of  them 
won't  distinguish  between  the  police  and  the  com- 
mittee of  the  unions.  They  are  so  ignorant.  And 
these  Italian  Socialists  are  so  violent,  so  anarchistic. 
Any  hindrance  will  seem  to  them  betrayal.  I'd 
rather  be  with  you." 

"  They'd  know  why,  Clara.  I  couldn't  insult  them 
by  distrust  like  that.  Besides,  I  don't  distrust  them. 
I  know  my  Italians.  The  obvious  place  for  you  is 
here,  with  the  poor  mother.    There's  the  priest  now." 

Cyrus  and  a  Franciscan  missionary  friar  came  in 
from  the  stairway,  and  Lucian  hooked  his  arm 
through  Balderoni's  and  drew  him  into  the  inner 
room. 

"  It's  all  arranged,"  Cyrus  whispered.  "  Mother 
let  me  have  her  motor  to  carry  the  baby  to  the  church 
and  the  cemetery. — What's  the  matter  in  there? 
Can't  they  be  quiet  five  minutes?  "  For  a  tumult 
of  tongues  had  broken  loose  in  the  other  room, 
blotting  out  the  priestly  mumble — even  the  laments 
of  the  women. 

"  Fratelli  miei  I  "  Lucian's  voice  struggled  through 


EXPLOSION  243 

the  clamour.  The  priest,  rapt  in  the  oblivion  of 
prayer,  continued  to  move  dumb  lips. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Cyrus.  He  looked  from 
the  priest  to  the  door,  took  a  step  toward  the  door, 
hesitated,  and  went  down  on  his  knees  beside  the 
kneeling  women. 

I  tiptoed  around  them,  knocked  to  no  effect  upon 
the  door,  and  opened  it  a  little  way.  The  raging 
noise  bellowed  in  my  face — then  hushed  abruptly. 

"  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Emery  a  moment,  before 
we  go  to  the  burial,"  I  explained,  and  squeezed  into 
the  room.  The  men  were  silent,  staring  at  me  while 
Lucian  and  I  talked  together  hurriedly. 

"  About  this  hand-press  edition  of  The  Torch — 
what  am  I  to  say  at  the  office?  " 

"  Oh — that! — Yes.  You  and  Uncle  Lew  will  have 
to  put  it  through,  Clara.  There  won't  be  any  time 
for  proof-reading.  Cuthbert  was  at  me  again,  before 
the  general  strike  shut  down,  about  Trissy.  I'm 
afraid  it's  true  that  Trissy  is  facing  both  ways.  Still 
— if  it  comes  up — remember,  I  vote  against  it.  And, 
Clara,  hold  a  column  free  till  midnight — no,  better 
say  two  o'clock — in  case  I  have  something  to  report 
about  this  affair.  I  hope  we  can  either  stop  it  off 
short  in  committee,  or  come  out  gloriously  as 
guardians  of  the  pubUc  welfare  against  sporadic 
rowdyism.  But  I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid  only 
force  will  block  this  crowd. 

"  I  shall  be  anxious,"  I  said. 

And  his  answer  was  a  radiant  smile.  '*  Isn't  it 
great!  "  he  whispered  "  We're  in  the  real  thing  at 
last." 


244  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


III 

After  we  buried  the  baby,  Cyrus  dropped  me  at 
The  Torch  office,  where  I  found  Uncle  Lew  and 
Lazarus  and  Cuthbert  fussing  about  among  the 
presses. 

'*  Well,  Clara,  I  guess  I've  busted  our  newest 
linotype  machine,"  Uncle  Lew  announced.  "  It 
looks  so  easy  when  that  little  blue-eyed  Mulhaley 
girl  plays  her  five-finger  exercises  on  it,  I  thought 
I*d  save  time.  But  I  haven't.  The  good  old 
Ruskinian  way  for  mine.  Me  and  WiUiam  Morris 
beheve  in  hand  labour.  It'll  be  slow. — The  last 
column  of  type  I  set  up  was  for  the  farewell  number 
of  The  Message  of  New  Hope.     How  many  years?  " 

He  was  smiling  when  he  said  it;  but  as  he  turned 
away  and  bent  over  the  case,  he  sighed. 

'*  Miss  Emery,  you  know  where  is  kept  the  keys  of 
the  store-room  where  is  ink — where  paper  is?  " 
Lazarus  Samson's  English  was  deserting  him  in  the 
emergency. 

I  suggested  the  absent  foreman's  pocket,  which  did 
not  help  much. 

"Where's  Lucian?  Why  isn't  he  on  his  job?  " 
growled  Cuthbert. 

But  when  I  told  him,  he  too  wanted  to  be  off. 

"No,  you  don't,  young  man!  "  said  Uncle  Lew. 
*'  You  sit  right  down  here  and  dig  up  the  capital 
letters  from  this  mess  of  type.  They  mixed  it  before 
they  walked  out.  That  shows  a  trusting  spirit, 
doesn't  it?  S'pose  they  thought  we'd  get  in  scab 
labour?  " 


EXPLOSION  245 

"  But  the  reporting's  my  job,"  protested  Cuthbert. 
"  Lucian's  no  journalist — he  won't  know " 

"  Everything's  your  job  to-day,"  interrupted 
Uncle  Lew.  "  Find  me  a  capital  T,  six-point.  The 
trouble  with  you  is  you're  too  highly  specialised, 
Cuthbert;  now's  your  opportunity  to  remedy  that 
defect  and  be  an  all-round  man,  like  me  and  William 
Morris.  Have  you  found  that  T  ? — That's  eight-point, 
son,  I  said  six." 

"  Weren't  they  right,  after  all  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Aren't 
we  scab  labour?     Ought  we  to  be  doing  this?  " 

"  I  thought  you'd  bite,"  shouted  Uncle  Lew. 
"It's  a  delicate  question: — Are  we? — ought  we? — 
What  do  you  say  ? — All  the  a's  in  one  pile,  Cuthbert, 
all  the  b's  in  another,  like  the  little  girl  and  the 
mixed  breakfast  foods  in  the  fairy  tale.  That's  the 
ticket.    Tip  'em  out.— Well,  Clara?  " 

"  I  asked  you,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  And  my  answer  is — this  " — he  waved  his  hands 
around  at  the  confusion  in  the  room.  "  I'm  like  the 
express  train  going  past  the  flag-station  at  New  Hope 
— I  don't  even  hesitate." 

"  But  if  it  isn't  scab  labour,  what  is  it,  Uncle  Lew?" 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  distinction  without  a 
difference,  my  dear.  We  are  not  depriving  any  man 
of  his  job  by  doing  this;  we  are  not  taking  away  any 
man's  wages,  since  we  don't  get  paid  for  it.  And 
the  money  we  take  in  for  this  number  of  The  Torch 
will  go  to  the  Strikers'  Relief  Fund.  There  will  be 
no  kick  coming  from  the  unions. — Now,  if  your 
conscience  has  gone  bye-low,  take  off  your  hat  and 
run  your  blue  pencil  through  the  Russo-American 
idioms  in  Lazarus's  account  of  that  poor  striker's 


246  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

funeral  procession. — Wf.  Cuthbert,  do  you  know 
what  that  means? — Yes,  dear  boy,  wrong  font, 
exactly.     Try  my  spectacles." 

Thus  Uncle  Lew,  in  that  whimsical  voice  of  his 
that  even  Cuthbert's  defiance  could  not  withstand. 

Later,  when  I  had  gone  into  my  own  office,  Lazarus 
came  in  and  stood  by  my  desk,  listening  to  my  sug- 
gestions absently. 

"  If  you  permit  me,  I  ask  you  an  impertinent 
question,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  be  impertinent,  Mr.  Samson," 
I  replied  gently. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  returned.  And  then — 
"  You  wasn't  ever  engaged  to  Mr.  Lawrence?  " 

**  Oh,  no !  "  I  blushed  at  the  over-vehemence  of 
my  tone. 

"  But  you  know  him  pretty  well?  " 

**  I  have  known  him  a  long  time." 

"  You  think  he  is  not  bluffing  the  workers  when  he 
says  he  asks  the  merchants  to  use  the  label?  You 
think  he  believes  in  the  closed  shop  ?  " 

'*  I  think  he  has  always  been  an  honourable  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Samson." 

"  Now,  here  is  a  conversation  a  man  sold  me.  He 
was  cleaning  the  windows  in  that  office,  and  he  heard 
them.  I  wrote  it."  Lazarus  handed  me  several 
scribbled  pages  of  yellow  paper  and  stood  waiting. 

It  was  an  incoherent  report  of  conversation  between 
Tristram  Lawrence  and  the  head  of  one  of  the  big 
department  stores. 

"  Then  the  Reform  candidate,  he  says,  '  /  want  to 
be  able  to  tell  them  I've  asked  you,  that's  all.'  And 
then  they  looks  at  each  other,  and  old  Wingate  he  laughs, 


EXPLOSION  247 

and  the  Reform  candidate  he  smiles  like  he  had  a  had 
taste  in  his  mouth.  And  old  Wingate  says,  '  Of  course, 
Mr.  Lawrence,  if  I  and  the  other  members  of  the 
Citizens  League  didnH  know  you  were  as  sound  as  the 
rest  of  us  on  this  issue,  we  shouldn't  he  supporting  your 
nomination.'  '  Of  course,'  says  the  Reform  candidate, 
'  /  understand.'  '  And  when  we  give  up  the  right  of 
an  employer  to  engage  whatever  man  he  pleases  at 
whatever  price  he  can  get  him  for,*  says  old  Wingate, 
'  we  strike  the  death-hlow  of  the  repuhlic'  *  Yes,' 
says  the  Reform  candidate,  kind  of  slow,  *  I  suppose 
we  do.'  Then  the  old  man  looks  at  him  sharp  and  says, 
'  Look  here,  Lawrence,  there's  talk  of  your  heing 
infected  hy  Socialism.'  And  Lawrence  says,  '  You 
know  I'm  a  memher  of  the  committee  for  relief  for 
strikers'  wives  and  children,  and  the  young  woman  who 
led  out  this  strike  is  a  Socialist.  I've  seen  something 
of  her  in  committee  work,  I  suppose  that's  where  the 
talk  arises.'  '  Yes,  I  dare  say,'  the  old  man  says, 
indifferent.  '  Fine-looking  girl,  eh  ? — So  I've  heard. 
Well,  I'm  glad  there  are  some  compensations.'  '  It's 
a  peculiar  situation,'  Lawrence  says.  Then  old  Wingate 
claps  him  on  the  shoulder  and  tells  him,  '  I  don't  know 
who  is  hetter  fitted  to  handle  it  than  you.  It's  all  right. 
You've  asked  me — urged  me — and  I'm  considering  it 
seriously.'  " 

There  was  more,  but  that  was  the  gist  of  it. 

"  What  does  Miss  Aarons  say?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  didn't  show  her  this,  yet.  But  to  everything 
she  only  says  I  make  it  a  personal  matter.  We  don't 
speak  to  each  other  for  two  days  now,  because  we 
disagreed.  What  I  want  to  know — shall  we  print 
this?" 


248  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Oh,  but  that  was  settled  days  ago,"  I  cried. 

"  You  think  so  ?     With  these  new  data  ?  " 

I  stared  at  him,  frightened. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  print,  you  understand,"  he  ex- 
plained. *'  I  am  personal  about  her;  she  is  right. 
I  don't  like  her  name  with  his  in  the  paper.  And  if 
she  gets  mad  in  a  hurry,  reading  this,  she  will  kiU 
him.  It  is  probable.  I  don't  want  that.  You  see 
how  it  is  personal  with  me  ?  She  is  so  right ;  I  must 
remember  only  the  cause,  not  her.  I  fail,  because  I 
am  personal.     But  if  you  say  to  print ?  " 

"  We  can't !  "  I  cried.  "  We  can't !  It  is  so  vulgar ; 
so  horrid.     The  Torch  does  not  print  scandal." 

"  The  Torch  prints  the  truth." 

"  He  is  an  honourable  gentleman  in  a  very  difficult 
position " 

''  He  is  in  a  difficult  position,  yes." 

"  And  who  knows  how  much  of  this  is  malicious — 
garbled?  " 

He  shrugged. 

"  We  should  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt," 
I  insisted. 

"  I  rely  to  your  judgment,"  he  said,  and  left  me 
alone  with  those  scribbled  yellow  sheets. 

And  I  was  a  coward. 

I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  The  Torch  could  not 
touch  this  sort  of  thing.  But  where  does  one  draw 
the  Hne  in  political  campaigns,  as  to  what  the  public 
has  a  right  to  know  about  the  political  morale  of  a 
candidate?  And  The  Torch  was  supporting  union 
labour  and  the  closed  shop,  which  Tristram  was 
trying  to  betray.  "  Not  trying  to,"  I  said.  "  He 
doesn't  mean  it  that  way."    And  The  Torch  was  the 


EXPLOSION  249 

organ  of  the  Socialist  Party.  *'  But  I  don't  belong 
to  the  party,"  I  said  irrelevantly.  I  cannot  forgive 
myself  for  saying  that.  Other  thoughts  crowding 
in  at  the  time  obscured  the  implication  it  held;  but 
the  words  flashed  back  into  consciousness  like  a 
shameful  blow  in  the  face.  I  had  been  quite  as 
ready  as  Tristram  to  take  advantage  of  a  false  posi- 
tion. No  doubt  he,  too,  did  not  realise  what  his 
action  meant  till  afterwards.  It  is  as  if  conscience 
were  absent-minded,  sometimes. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  I  was  still  trying  to  think 
that  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do,  when 
Cuthbert  came  in  to  tell  me  that  three  of  The  Torch* s 
four  pages  were  set  up.  Had  I  anything  else  that 
must  go  in  ? 

"  This?  "    His  hand  went  out  to  the  yellow  sheets. 

So  did  mine.  I  covered  them,  and  crumpled  them 
together.     "No,  not  this!" 

"We're  leaving  two  columns  open  for  Lucian; 
and  Uncle  Lew  is  setting  up  the  striker's  fimeral 
now,  and  that  baby's  obsequies  you  sent  down," 
he  said.  "  Regular  tear-starter,  that.  But  we  ought 
to  have  something  to  run  in  at  the  last  minute, 
just  supposing  Lucian's  train  wreck  fizzles  out." 

I  suggested  going  again  to  the  settlement,  where 
there  were  always  new  developments.  But  he 
scouted  the  proposal. 

"  Settlement !  "  he  snarled.  "  I  mean  something 
vital.    We've  got  enough  philanthropic  gush." 

"  Cuthbert,  once  for  all,"  I  said,  "  understand  that 
I  am  quite  as  convinced  of  the  futility  of  settlements 
as  you  are;  indeed,  I  am  more  convinced,  for  I'm  not 
afraid  of  what  they  can  do." 


250  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  I  afraid!  "  he  blustered — "  I  ignore  them!  " 

"  I  haven't  observed  it.  But  my  suggestion  has 
nothing  to  do  with  philanthropic  gush.  You  know, 
as  well  as  I  do,  that  if  you  want  to  get  the  latest 
movements  of  the  garment  strikers,  you  have  to  go 
to  Helen  at  the  settlement.'* 

''  Yes;  and  if  I  want  to  get  the  latest  news  of 
Tristram  Lawrence  and  Bertha  Aarons,"  he  retorted, 
*'  I  can  find  them  there,  too,  any  time  of  day,  sitting 
holding  hands  on  a  sofa  behind  the  door." 

"Cuthbert!" 

*'  I  say  it's  so !  It's  time  we  threw  the  flashlight 
on  the  Reform  candidate,  I  tell  you.  We've  got 
enough  to  go  on." 

"  Lucian  told  me,  the  last  thing,  that  he  would  not 
have  it,"  I  said. 

He  clucked  his  tongue  against  his  teeth  im- 
patiently, and  snapped  his  fingers.  "  Oh,  well,  if 
he's  printing  a  weekly  guide  on  etiquette,  he  can 
count  me  out." 

"  Cuthbert,"  I  began,  "  just  because  Mr.  Lawrence 
is  running  against  you  in  this  campaign  you  ought  to 
be  the  more  careful  not  to  indulge  in  personalities 
about  him  in  print." 

"Yes,  that's  politics,  isn't  it?"  he  retorted. 
**  I'm  no  gentleman — as  you  once  remarked.  I'm 
also  no  lady,  thank  God !  I'U  get  ahead  of  him  and 
Lucian  too  before  I'm  done.  Lucian  can  keep  me 
out  of  print,  maybe;  but  he  can't  muzzle  me." 

Since  childhood  I  have  always  been  moved  to 
preach  to  Cuthbert.  All  the  prig  in  me  comes  out 
when  I  am  with  him.  Now  I  said — "  You  are  so 
angry  against  all  the  world.     It  is  dreadful.     Your 


EXPLOSION  251 

anger  will  destroy  you,  Cuthbert.  If  Lucian  were 
your  bitterest  enemy — if  he  had  hounded  you  to 
disgrace — you  could  not  speak  of  him  more  violently. 
You  and  he  differ  on  a  matter  of  journalistic  policy, 
that  is  all — and  yet " 

"  That  is  all?  "  he  said,  suddenly  quiet.  "  All?— 
If  it  were  not  for  Lucian,  you " 

"  Hush !  "  I  said.  And  he  burst  out  into  boisterous, 
heart-breaking  laughter. 

"  And  I  must  knuckle  under  because  he  gave  me 
his  old  clothes  in  college,'*  he  shouted.  *'  I  must 
lick  his  foot  and  give  up  the  woman  I  love *' 

I  stood  up.  "  There  was  never  a  question  of  such 
a  thing!  "  I  cried.     **  How  dare  you?  '* 

'*  I  say,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Lucian  you 
would '* 

"Leave  the  room  at  once!"  I  remember  how 
strange  my  voice  sounded. 

"  I  say,  he  doesn't  even  know  you  are  in  love 
with " 

"  Then  I  shall  go."    Could  I  see  to  go  ?  I  wondered. 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  keep  me,  dropped  it,  and 
shrank  aside. 

"  I  say,  he's  a  fool!    My  God,  I  could " 

So  I  went — forgetting  those  loose  yellow  pages. 


IV 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  I  got  home  that 
evening.  Uncle  Lew  and  I  had  had  a  dinner  of  stale 
bread  and  strong  cheese  bought  at  a  fabulous  price 
from  a  corner  grocery,  and  eaten  among  the  presses 


252  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

by  the  light  of  three  monstrously  expensive  tallow 
candles.  While  we  were  eating,  Cuthbert  looked  in 
at  the  door.  His  face  flared,  wild  and  defiant,  among 
the  shadows,  then  disappeared. 

"  Come  in  and  have  a  bite,"  Uncle  Lew  called. 
"  There's  plenty." 

But  we  heard  him  clattering  downstairs. 

He  was  standing  at  the  front  door  when  we  came 
down  later. 

"  How  about  a  filler,  in  case  Lucian's  row  doesn't 
pan  out?  "  he  asked.  "  Because  if  you  haven't  one, 
I  think  I — "  The  shakiness  of  his  voice  seemed  to  me 
natural,  under  the  circumstances;  but  Uncle  Lew 
turned  and  looked  at  him  and  said : — 

"What's  that?— Oh,  filler?  Yes,  there's  one  on 
my  desk  that  will  do;  an  interview  with  a  button- 
sewer.  I'U  set  it  up  for  emergency  when  I  have  seen 
the  lady  editor  safe  home." 

"  I'll  set  it  up,"  Cuthbert  cried,  starting  back  up 
the  stairs. 

"Do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  him?  " 
Uncle  Lew  asked,  shutting  the  heavy  front  door  and 
trying  the  knob.  And  to  my  brief  "  Yes  "  he  replied 
hastily,  "  Oh,  very  well!  "  and  changed  the  subject. 

The  streets  were  unpleasantly  dark,  and  Uncle  Lew 
hurried  me  along  on  pretence  of  needing  to  get  back 
to  his  work.  We  had  an  electric  lamp  that  we 
flashed  now  and  then.  Occasionally  we  met  some 
one  with  a  lantern,  and  there  were  policemen  with 
official  bulls'-eyes  at  more  or  less  uncertain  intervals. 
Once,  down  a  side  street  there  were  screams,  and 
scuttling  as  of  gigantic  rats. 

"  Now's  the  time  I  regret  your  Franciscanism, 


EXPLOSION  253 

Clara,  and  wish  you  had  an  auto  of  your  own,"  Uncle 
Lew  said. 

"  I  hope  I  shouldn't  be  riding  in  it  now,  even  if  I 
did  own  one,"  I  retorted.  "  Even  Cyrus  wished  he 
owned  one  to-day;  but  it  was  for  a  funeral."  And 
we  laughed. 

The  showy  vestibule  of  our  apartment  house  was 
illumined  by  one  large  oil  lamp  with  a  tin  reflector 
behind  it.  Uncle  Lew  left  me  there,  and  I  had 
started  up  the  unaccustomed  stairs  when  a  reluctant 
voice  below  me  said,  "  Miss  Emery,"  and  looking 
down  I  saw  a  shame-faced  elevator-boy. 

"  Why,  Joe;  have  you  given  in?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes'm,"  he  opened  the  door  of  the  elevator  cage. 

"All  the  boys?  " 

"  Yes'm."  He  seemed  to  lose  himself  in  depressing 
reflections. 

I  again  began  to  climb  the  stairs. 

**  Miss  Emery,  it's  running,  you  know!  "  he  called 
up  in  surprise. 

"  Not  for  me,  Joe,"  I  said. 

His  mouth  fell  open.  He  watched  me  till  I  came 
to  the  first  landing ;  then  I  saw  him  go  into  his  cage, 
shut  the  door,  and  sit  down  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  chin  in  his  hands.  He  reminded  me 
humorously  of  Rodin's  Thinker.  I  cHmbed  the 
remaining  seven  flights  of  stairs  with  a  whimsical 
feehng  of  amusement. 

Tristram  Lawrence  was  in  our  drawing-room  try- 
ing to  induce  Cyrus  to  speak  at  a  mass-meeting 
which,  it  seemed,  the  Citizens*  Relief  Committee  was 
hurriedly  planning  for  Sunday  afternoon.  Within 
the  last  year  or  two  people  had  waked  up  to  the  fact 


254  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

that  Cyrus  could  speak,  and  he  was  beginning  to  be 
very  much  in  demand,  although  oftener  than  not  he 
would  refuse.  Tristram  was  assuring  him,  now, 
that  he  might  talk  Tolstoyism,  non-resistance, 
Christianity,  whatever  he  pleased — so  he  struck  the 
note  of  Peace.  Brotherhood — that  was  the  motif  to 
embroider.  The  present  situation  was  furnishing  a 
dramatic  example  of  our  dependence  upon  one 
another.  Peace,  conciliation,  arbitration  —  all  of 
them  hobbies  of  Cyrus's;  surely  he  would  not 
refuse  ? 

He  consented  at  last  and  made  his  escape  from  the 
room,  and  Tristram  developed  the  plan  of  the  meet- 
ing for  my  Cousin  Pauline  and  me. — The  note  of 
appeal,  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  was  to  be 
prominent;  appeal  to  the  strikers.  The  discomfort 
of  the  guiltless  public  was  to  be  stressed. — Guiltless! 
Having  left  undone  the  things  it  ought  to  have  done  ? 
— But  I  did  not  interrupt.  Along  with  the  veiled 
appeal  for  mercy  there  was  to  go,  also  veiled,  a  threat. 
Through  the  efforts  of  the  Reform  candidate,  whose 
sympathy  for  the  cause  of  organised  labour  was  so 
well  known,  the  mayor  had,  thus  far,  been  persuaded 
not  to  call  for  troops,  but A  list  of  those  organisa- 
tions which  had  agreed  to  go  back  to  work  on  Monday 
morning  would  be  read. — I  ventured  to  question  the 
policy  of  this,  and  Tristram  made  a  note  of  it. 
Arbitration  was  to  be  urged,  and  the  meeting  was  to 
close  with  the  proposal  of  names  for  a  committee  of 
arbitration,  six  names:  two  from  the  unions,  two 
from  the  employers,  two  from  the  public. — "  We 
mean  to  make  Cyrus  one,"  Tristram  said,  "  and  a 
woman,   perhaps   Miss   Baldwin,   the   other." — The 


EXPLOSION  255 

strike,  of  course,  was  to  be  called  off  pending  the 
decision,  which  would  hardly  be  reached,  Tristram 
thought,  until  after  the  elections.  I  reminded  him 
that  a  somewhat  similar  proposal  for  arbitration  had 
already  been  rejected  by  the  strikers  early  in  the 
Garment  Workers'  strike,  but  he  was  evidently 
counting  on  the  temper  of  the  meeting  to  push  public 
opinion  in  that  direction;  especially  was  he  count- 
ing on  Cyrus.  I  observed  that  he  had  no  Socialist 
speakers  on  his  programme. 

At  this  point,  my  Cousin  Pauline,  always  a  little 
dazed  in  the  presence  of  practical  detail,  excused 
herself. 

"  I  proposed  Lucian's  name,"  Tristram  exclaimed, 
"  but  the  mayor  thought " 

"  Oh,  but  Lucian  wouldn't  have  spoken,  anyway," 
said  I.  "He  wouldn't  approve  of  getting  that  sort 
of  peace." 

''Arbitration?"  queried  Tristram.  "  What's  con- 
trary to  Socialism  there?  " 

"  It  looks  like  hoodwinking  the  people,  to  tide 
over  till  after  the  elections." 

"  You're  very  fond  of  that  word — '  hoodwink.'  " 

"  What  word  would  you  have  me  use?  " 

"  Clara,"  he  was  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
bowing  his  head,  and  he  pushed  his  fingers  through 
his  thin  hair.  "  My  faith  in  myself  is  at  a  low  ebb 
to-night ;  I'd  Uke  to  think  you  keep  your  faith  in  me." 

The  unaccustomed  gesture  had  left  him  dishevelled. 
I  discovered  that  his  was  the  type  that  looks  in- 
effective when  its  hair  is  mussed. 

"  But  I  never  did  think  you  would  win,"  I 
stammered. 


256  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  the  election — I  mean  faith 
in  me,  the  man." 

I  said  nothing  to  this. 

When  he  spoke  again  he  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  as  if  the  Ught  annoyed  him;  but  there  was  not 
much  Hght. 

"  If  I  had  known — all  that  it  would  involve — I 
presume — I  should  not  have  gone  in. — But  I  am  in, 
now."  He  drooped  backward  slowly  into  the  deep 
chair  and  mused  a  few  moments,  with  eyelids  down- 
cast. Then  he  rubbed  his  fingers  against  each  other 
with  a  delicate  gesture  of  repugnance,  and  said,  "  I 
hope  you  will  never  know  what  it  feels  like  to  touch 
pitch."  And  then,  "  It  was  in  your  cause,  you  know; 
the  Cause  of  the  People.  You  probably  hear  all 
sorts  of  lies  about  me.  I  can  see  by  your  face  that 
you  do.  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  you  to  believe  that, 
nevertheless,  I  am  disinterested?  " 

"  You  want  to  win,"  I  reminded  him. 

"  To  give  the  people  what  I  believe  to  be  a  better 
government.  But — I  labour  under  the  disadvan- 
tage of  having  been  trained  for  hterature,  not  for 
hfe.  To-night  I  am  ready  to  admit,  to  you,  that  I 
ought  to  have  stayed  in  literature.  But  it  is  not  my 
fault  that  I  didn't,  Clara;  you  were  in  hfe." 

"  Then  you  were  not  disinterested,"  I  remarked. 

*'  Would  you  want  a  man  to  be  whoUy  disinterested 
— if  you  loved  him?  " 

"  I  should  want  him  not  to  try  to  deceive  himself, 
or  me,  as  to  his  own  motives." 

"  He  must  be  superhuman,  then.  No  man  ever 
yet  fathomed  his  own  motives." 

"  I  distrust  such  a  convenient  doctrine." 


EXPLOSION  257 

He  got  up,  his  greyhound  face  suddenly  ashy,  and 
smoothing  his  hair  with  one  hand,  felt  for  the  chair- 
arm  unsteadily  with  the  other.  "  After  that,  how 
can  I  presume  to  ask  you  the  question  a  man  asks 
the  woman  he  would  most  honour — if  there  is  no 
honour  in  me?  " 

"Oh!"  I  whispered,  covering  up  my  own  face, 
"  I  did  not  say  that." 

"  Clara! — you  will  listen?  " 

"  No,  no!  "  I  cried;  but  he  would  not  be  stopped. 

"  I  could  defend  myself  " — the  distressful  tremor 
in  his  voice  sent  the  tears  raining  through  my  fingers. 
"  But  I  make  no  defence  to  you.  I  love  you.  And 
because  I  love  you  I  have  tried  to  do  something  I  was 
not  fit  to  do.  But  I'll  keep  at  it  until  I  am  fit — if 
you  will  marry  me,  Clara." 

"  If  I  loved  you,"  I  said  then,  and  I  tried  to  be 
gentle,  "  perhaps  I  could  be  happy  to  marry  you  on 
those  terms.  I  am  afraid  I  should  delude  myself 
into  thinking  that  I  could  teach  you  to  care  for  the 
things  that  I  care  for — if  I  loved  you.  But — I  don't 
love  you." 


After  he  had  gone,  and  I  had  dried  my  eyes  and  got 
hold  of  myself,  there  were  lengths  of  evening  stretch- 
ing still  ahead,  full  of  dread  imaginings.  Lucian  had 
warned  me  not  to  expect  him  before  midnight,  if  then. 
What  had  happened  in  those  long  afternoon  hours 
since  he  left  me,  I  wondered.  What  was  happening 
now,  in  that  city  murk?  I  remember  I  went  from 
window  to  window,  straining  into  the  unusual  dark- 
ness  restlessly.     No   bright,   blinking   garlands,   no 


258  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

streaming  ribbons  of  light,  decked  the  River  Way. 
At  sullen  intervals  along  the  shore  blear-eyed  lanterns 
kept  watch.  The  black  vagueness  of  the  three 
bridges  streaked  the  dim,  palpitating  water.  We 
had  stripped  our  great  courtesan  of  her  jewels. 

"Have  you  noticed  the  stars?"  Cyrus  said, 
behind  me.     "  They  get  their  chance  to-night." 

I  made  room  for  him  in  the  window,  and  he  opened 
it  and  kneeling  down  laid  his  head  on  the  sill,  so  that 
he  looked  sidewise  up  at  the  sky.  "  This  way  you 
quicken  them  and  shut  the  city  out,"  he  said.  And 
I  knelt  down  too,  and  laid  my  head  beside  his  on 
the  siU. 

"  You  know,  don't  you,  that  I  should  be  with  him, 
if  I  knew  where  he  was?  "  he  asked,  after  a  little 
silence. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  I  answered. 

"  But  one  finds  out  nothing  in  this  chaos.  There 
is  no  knowing  which  railroad  they're  coming  in  on. 
And  without  the  telephone  we  are  so  helpless." 

I  moved  my  head  in  acquiescence,  and  after 
another  star-himg  silence,  he  said,  in  his  quietest 
voice — "  If  I  could  have  gone  in  his  stead." 

I  am  glad  I  put  my  hand  out  and  touched  his 
shoulder,  humanly,  tenderly. 

These  Umbrian  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep,  I  come 
up  to  the  loggia  and  lay  my  cheek  against  the  cool 
parapet,  and  say  over  and  over  the  things  I  might 
have  said  to  comfort  him  that  other  night.  I  think 
of  so  many  things  to  say,  now.  I  shut  my  eyes  that 
I  may  see  again  his  dear  head  lying  beside  mine; 
but  my  voice  goes  seeking  out  among  the  stars. 

"  If  I  could  have  gone  in  his  stead,"  he  said;  and 


EXPLOSION  259 

then  in  the  comfortless  stillness,  "No;  I  must  not 
covet  even  his  suffering." 

And  I — withdrew  my  hand  from  his  shoulder. 

I  remember  so  well  how  his  coat  wrinkled  across 
the  back  as  he  got  off  his  knees  and  went  to  the  door. 
I  remember  the  Uttle  straggle  of  hair  that  stood  out 
from  the  crown  of  his  head. 

"  I  shall  be  getting  my  to-morrow's  speech  in 
shape,"  he  said,  "  if  you  need  me.  I  shan't  go  to 
bed. — But  you  won't  need  me." 

It  was  eleven  then,  and  I  got  out  my  diary  and 
wrote  the  day  into  it,  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time 
trying  to  justify  myself  to  myself  for  not  having 
consulted  Uncle  Lew  about  Tristram's  interview  with 
the  department  store  man.  It  would  have  been  so 
simple  to  consult  Uncle  Lew — but  conscience  said, 
*'  You  were  afraid  to  consult  him,  he  sees  so  clear." 
I  did  not  write  that  in  the  diary,  but  I  wiU  write  it 
here.  In  the  diary  I  stressed  the  fact  that  Lucian 
had  told  me  to  cast  his  vote  against  —  but  against 
what?  Against  facts  that  the  public  had  a  right  to 
know?  Did  Lucian  mean  me  to  interpret  him  that 
way  ?  Suppose  I  had  put  him  in  the  wrong  with  the 
party,  by  my  cowardice  ?  And  suppose  he  could  never 
come  back  to  set  himself  right  ?— Suppose  he  never 
came  back?  I  sat  a  long  time  motionless  in  the 
clutch  of  the  intolerable  thought. 

I  had  not  re-read  that  record  in  my  diary  until 
yesterday,  here  at  the  villa,  in  the  cypress  avenue. 
The  ancient  serried  trees,  motionless  in  their  inimit- 
able vista,  stretch  dark  and  unending,  like  the  hours 
before  Lucian  came  home. 

By  two  o'clock  I  could  no  longer  sit  still,  but  I 


26o  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

dared  not  let  myself  pace  the  floor.  I  hunted  up  a 
dust-cloth  and  dusted  the  drawing-room:  all  my 
Cousin  Pauline's  little  silver  gimcracks,  all  the 
picture-frames  and  the  chair  rungs  and  the  piano 
keys.  I  was  wiping  off  the  books  when  I  heard  his 
key  in  the  haU-door,  his  voice  and  Cyrus's  mingling 
in  a  brief,  excited  whisper.  "  Yes,  aU  safe,"  I  heard, 
and  "  Clara's  waiting." 

His  linen  collar  had  been  torn  off  the  button  at  one 
side;  his  left  coat-sleeve  hung  ripped  from  cuff  to 
armhole;  there  was  a  muddy  splash  on  the  front  of 
his  shirt,  a  muddy  streak  across  his  forehead;  his 
hair  flashed  every  way;    his  eyes 

I  heard  Cyrus  shut  the  drawing-room  door  and 
tiptoe  away,  down  the  hall. 

"  I  mustn't  touch  you;  I'm  so  dirty,"  Lucian 
whispered. 

And  I  whispered — "  I  don't  mind." 

Presently — I  don't  know  when — he  said:  "  Where 
were  we  all  these  years?  "  And  when  I  did  not 
answer — "  Did  you  know,  Clara?  " 

"  Know  what?  " 

"  That  it  was  love  from  the  beginning?  " 

"No;  there  are  some  things  one  does  not  tell  one's 
self." 

"  Ah — you!  "  he  sighed.  "  No  one  else  could  say 
it  that  way." 

I  liked  to  have  him  say  that,  even  though  it  may 
not  be  true. 

"What  happened?"  I  asked,  touching  his  torn 
sleeve. 

"  Oh,  everything — and  nothing.     At  trade  union 


EXPLOSION  261 

headquarters  they  were  not  too  happy  over  my  news. 
Most  of  them  would  rather  have  been  left  in  ignorance. 
The  bigger  men  on  the  executive  committee  were 
with  me,  of  course,  but  the  others  were  for  hands 
off.  "  And  let  two  or  three  or  four  hundred  men  go 
down  an  embankment  to  destruction!  "  I  shouted.  I 
was  red  hot.  One  said,  *  It's  war.*  One  said,  '  It's 
not  our  responsibility,  these  Italians  are  not 
unionised.'  One  of  their  Socialists  said,  *  And  you 
say  you  stand  for  the  class  war;  they  could  read  you 
out  of  the  party  for  this.'  I  said,  *  Let  them! — I 
don't  care  a  damn.'  I  didn't  handle  it  very  well,  I 
was  too  mad.  Neither  did  the  chairman.  We  were 
hammering  at  it  for  four  hours  and  then  we  lost  it 
by  one  vote.  They  wouldn't  interfere.  *  Too  bad  I  ' 
the  chairman  said,  *  but  if  you  hustle  you  can  still 
put  the  police  on  to  it  in  time.'  That  Socialist 
Unionist  didn't  say  anything;  he  just  looked  at  me 
and  smiled  his  class-conscious  smile.  '  I  can  wave 
a  red  lantern  on  a  railroad  track  as  well  as  a  police- 
man,' I  said.  '  I  shan't  waste  time  telling  the 
police.  And  you,  comrade,'  I  said  to  the  smiler, 
'  go  down  to  the  Sociahst  headquarters  and  tell  them 
I've  gone  out  on  the  G.H.I,  tracks  to  prevent  the 
slaughter,  if  I  can,  of  three  or  four  hundred  pro- 
letarians. Proletarians,  do  you  hear,  you  fool? 
members  of  the  labouring  class  so  befuddled  and 
degraded  by  the  iniquities  of  the  present  industrial 
system  that  they  don't  know  they're  your  brothers 
and  mine.  Proletarians  of  all  lands,  unite  I  you  say. 
Are  you  going  to  bid  these  poor  devils  unite  after 
you've  pitched  them  over  the  precipice?  Class- 
conscious — ^you!  *     I  didn't  wait  for  his  answer." 


262  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

He  laughed  and,  linking  his  arm  in  mine,  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  drawing-room. 

"  Beloved,  can  you  hear  it  chant,  and  shout,  and 
sing,"  he  whispered,  "  chant,  and  shout,  and  laugh, 
and  sob,  and  sing? — My  blood  leaps  to  the  rhythm 
of  it.  All  the  rage  and  despair  and  brutality  of  it — 
all  the  bright  brotherhood  of  it ;  all  the  near  failure 
and  far  seen  triumph  of  it.  All  the  anguish  wrapped 
round  in  the  victorious  laughter  of  God.    Listen !  " 

We  stood  still  together,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  And  in  the  heart  of  it.  Beloved,  in  the  still  place 
at  the  heart  of  the  crashing  discords  and  distraught 
harmonies,  this  singing  love  of  ours — earnest  of  all 
the  oneness  that  shall  be." 

"  I  hear,"  I  said.  And  I  turned  and  looked  into 
his  eyes,  and  drew  him  to  me,  with  my  hands  on  his 
shoulders.  So  we  listened.  But  soon  he  leaned  to 
me  and  kissed  my  eyes  and  said : — 

**  No;  put  the  thought  away  from  us,  dear  heart. 
I  shall  never  sing  it;  I  shall  never  write  it.  Taillefer 
sang  the  Song  of  Roland  before  Hastings;  but  when 
the  fight  was  on  who  had  ears  to  listen,  who  had 
breath  to  sing?     The  battle  sang  itself." 

"  But  when  it  is  over,"  I  pleaded. 

"  Emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity?  "  he  smiled. 
*'  When  it  is  over — oh,  long  before  set  of  sun,  my 
darling,  long  before  this  long,  long  strife  is  ended, 
you  and  I  shall  be  lying  dead  upon  the  field." 

I  think  my  eyes  still  pleaded,  for  again  he  kissed 
them.  "  There  is  not  enough  of  me  to  fight  and 
sing,  both,"  he  said.  "  I  choose  to  fight.  You  and 
I,  Beloved,  choose  that  I  shall  fight.  Say  it !  I  want 
to  hear  you  say  it." 


EXPLOSION  263 

"  I  choose— that  you  shall  fight,"  I  said  through 
my  tears. 

"  And  when  Fm  restive — as  I  am  to-night,  with  the 
imperative  desire  to  sing  it — ^you  must  crush  my 
egotism  with  what,  I  suspect,  is  the  modest,  salutary 
truth,  that  I'm  not  big  enough  to  sing  it,  even  if  I 
would." 

"  No;  that  is  not  the  truth!  "  I  cried. 

"  We  shall  never  be  sure,  dear.  That's  my  hair 
shirt.  It  scratches  healthily.  But  you  haven't 
heard  the  end  of  my  story. — I  wasted  half  an  hour 
trying  to  borrow  a  motor  to  take  me  out  there. 
Gasolene  is  running  short  in  this  beleaguered  town, 
did  you  know  it?  And  finally  I  set  out  over  the 
tracks  for  an  indefinite  spot  eight  miles,  or  perhaps 
farther,  beyond  the  city.  It  was  half -past  five  then. 
At  half-past  eight  I  did  get  a  four-mile  lift  in  a  passing 
motor;  and  after  that  it  wasn't  safe  to  leave  the 
ties  as  I  didn't  know  just  where  they  would  be  cut. 
I  had  my  electric  flash-light  with  me,  and  three  red 
lanterns;  but  I  didn't  dare  use  a  light  for  fear  of 
giving  myself  away,  and  I  almost  ran  into  the  wreckers 
in  the  darkness.  Then  I  dogged  them  and  found  that 
they  were  waiting  for  an  eleven  o'clock  accommoda- 
tion to  pass,  so  as  not  to  wreck  anything  earlier  than 
the  midnight  express.    They  derailed  the  track  near 

the  middle  of  a  trestle.     Yes — fiendish ;  but  then . 

I  had  only  half  an  hour  and  I  wanted  to  make  sure 
they  didn't  block  me,  so  I  groped  along  under  the 
trestle  and  up  the  embankment,  and  then  beyond, 
for  half  a  mile,  before  I  ventured  to  light  a  lantern. 
Two  of  them  I  set  on  the  track,  about  a  hundred  yards 
apart,  out  of  sight  of  each  other,  round  a  curve. 


264  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

You  see,  I  was  afraid  they  would  patrol  the  track. 
They  did,  but  not  far  enough.  I  kept  the  third 
lantern  to  wave,  if  they  should  find  the  other  two. 
I  tied  a  message  to  each  lantern,  '  Trestle  derailed, 
half  a  mile  beyond.'  I  never  expect  to  enjoy  myself 
so  much  again !  " 

"  If  those  Italians  had  found  you — Oh,  Lucian !  " 

"  But  you  see,  they  didn't!  " 

"  Every  one  will  say  you  ought  to  have  warned 
the  police — that  it  was  your  duty  as  a  citizen." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  And  according  to  all  precedents 
of  conventional  morahty,  I  ought.  But  think  how 
it  would  have  complicated  matters — ^how  it  would 
have  increased  hard  feeling.  If  there  had  been  no 
other  way,  that  would  have  been  another  matter. 
But  there  was  this  way.  I  watched  the  conductor 
and  brakesman  come  down  the  track,  after  the  train 
stopped.  They  went  out  on  the  trestle  and  found 
the  break.  I  suppose  the  train  is  still  out  there,  and 
the  strike-breakers.  I  crawled  up  to  the  turnpike 
after  that,  and  presently  along  came  a  motor  from 
town,  and  slowed  up  and  looked  me  over;  and  that 
grinning  SociaUst  got  out  and  said,  *  Is  that  you, 
comrade?  Are  we  too  late  to  lend  a  hand?  '  And 
I  said,  '  Repented,  did  you  ?  Then  take  me  back 
to  The  Torch  office  double  quick.'  So  they  did.  I 
left  Uncle  Lew  setting  up  the  story.  It's  not  much 
over  half  a  column,  but  Cuthbert  said  he  had  a  filler 
ready  for  the  rest  of  the  space.  He  was  going  to 
send  Uncle  Lew  to  bed  and  do  the  press  work  when 
it  was  all  set  up.  They  made  me  come  home.  I 
think  Uncle  Lew  knew  you'd  be  anxious." 

"  How  did  you  write  it  up?  "  I  asked. 


EXPLOSION  265 

"  Oh,  quite  from  the  outside,  as  it  would  appear 
to  the  trainmen.  A  war-measure — stressing  the 
humanitarian  character  of  the  warning.  The  infer- 
ence would  be  that  the  wreckers  had  given  it,  of 
course,  though  I  didn't  say  they  did.  I  also  stated 
that  the  unions  disclaimed  responsibility ;  the  wreck- 
ing had  evidently  been  done  by  private  persons  and 
not  under  the  direction  of  organised  labour,  '  which 
made  the  care  displayed  for  human  life  all  the  more 
remarkable,'  etc.,  etc.  It  will  make  the  unions  want 
to  kick  themselves  for  not  having  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"  Now  you  must  go  to  bed,"  I  urged. 

**  And  you.  Dearest,  don't  look  at  me  like  that; 
as  if  I  were  a  hero.  There  is  something  on  my 
conscience,  unheroic,  I  must  tell  you.  About 
Tristram " 

"  Oh,  Tristram!  "  I  said,  "  and  on  mine." 

"  You  mean " 

"No;   not  quite  what  you  think " 

"What  do  I  think?" 

"  Tell  me  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  V 

CONFLAGRATION 


I  DO  not  have  premonitions  of  misfortune.  I  often 
plan  and  live  through  in  imagination  the  possible 
deaths  of  friends  and  relatives;  but  this  is  a  literary, 
not  a  psychic  trait.  And  Lucian  is  like  me.  On 
that  last  Sunday  of  the  general  strike  we  went  down 
to  the  mass  meeting  almost  gaily,  unshadowed  by 
any  tragic  omen.  Somehow,  at  the  moment,  victory 
for  the  strikers  seemed  inevitable,  and  I  think  we 
had  forgotten  that  personal  grief  could  touch  us. 
No  doubt  our  own  individual  happiness,  so  new  and 
absorbing,  created  the  illusion. 

The  immense  hall  was  filling  rapidly  when  we 
arrived.  It  was  a  grey,  misty  afternoon,  and  people 
brought  the  damp  and  the  mud  in  with  them.  The 
place  reeked  with  wet  rubber  and  moist  humanity. 
We  sat  in  the  centre,  some  ten  or  twelve  rows  from 
the  front,  and  congratulated  ourselves  on  being  so 
near  the  speakers.  But  later,  how  intolerably  far 
away  it  seemed!  I  had  been  invited  to  sit  on  the 
platform,  but  had  refused — to  my  Cousin  Pauline's 
annoyance. 

'*  This  is  surely  the  time  to  take  your  stand  with 
your  own  people,"  she  conplained  that  morning  at 
the  breakfast  table. 

266 


CONFLAGRATION  267 

"  And  so  I  do/*  I  said. 

"  The  fanatical  Socialist,"  the  marchese  smiled 
indulgently. 

And  I  acquiesced  with,  "  If  you  like." 

*'  No ;  your  true  fanatic  is  always  a  party  member,*' 
Lucian  teased,  "  and  you  reverse  the  biblical  phrase 
— ^you  are  of  the  party  but  not  in  it.** 

"  It  is  your  level-headed  fanatic  who  is  fanatichis- 
simus,'*  said  Cyrus,  gently,  *'  and  that  is  Clara.** 

"  And  you,  too!  "  laughed  his  brother. 

*'  Darling,"  said  my  Cousin  Pauline,  "  there  is  no 
such  word  as  fanatichissimus." 

But  before  the  mass  meeting  was  over  I  would  have 
given  much  to  be  upon  the  platform. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  city  were  crushed  into 
that  huge,  ill-smelling  hall.  Long  before  the  hour 
every  seat  was  taken  on  the  floor  and  in  the  gallery; 
the  high  window  sills  were  filled,  the  walls  were  lined 
with  people  standing.  At  the  doors,  they  said,  the 
pressure  was  intense.  Despite  the  police,  crowds 
surged  up  the  aisles,  and,  once  in,  could  not  be  got 
out. 

"  Stand  up  and  take  a  look!  "  Lucian  said.  '*  It*s 
tremendous!  '* 

The  men  and  women  immediately  around  us  were 
Italians;  we  knew  many  of  them — faces  that  flashed 
and  lowered,  restless  shoulders,  restless  hands;  the 
young  girls  looking  out  half-starved  from  under- 
neath their  big,  be-feathered  hats;  the  young  men 
furtive  or  insolent — but  always  with  a  pathetically 
friendly  smile  for  us. 

The  Slavic  faces  were  perhaps  in  the  majority; 
their  smouldering  eyes  were  everywhere;   and  every- 


268  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

where  were  the  ferret  looks  of  watchful  Jews.  Heavy 
Irish  trade  unionists  elbowed  and  shoved  their  way 
through  the  crowd.  I  recognised  a  labour  leader 
here  and  there,  usually  in  low- voiced,  emphatic 
colloquy  with  some  button-holed  henchman.  And 
dotted  all  about  the  hall  there  were  those  other  faces, 
mingled  of  intensest  curiosity  and  secret  apprehension 
— the  faces  of  the  American  upper  class.  On  every 
side  I  caught  their  unwinking,  excited  gaze.  I 
caught  it  two  seats  behind  us,  and  after  a  staring 
moment  it  nodded  and  smiled,  and  was  Nicholas 
Richards  and  his  pretty  wife. 

"  Great  show,  isn't  it!  "  he  seemed  to  say.  We 
couldn't  hear  his  voice  for  the  general  rumbling. 

Presently  he  beckoned,  leaning  toward  us  over 
intervening  shoulders,  and  we  bent  near  enough  to 
hear  him  murmur,  **  If  a  cog  slips  there'll  be  a 
massacre.  Jinks !  I'm  scared,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it.     I  wish  I'd  left  my  wife  at  home." 

We  could  only  nod  and  smile  our  reassiurance. 

"There's  Uncle  Lew  waving  in  the  gallery!" 
exclaimed  Lucian.  "  That  means  the  paper's  ready 
— he  was  bound  to  get  it  out  for  the  meeting." 

*'  Something  is  the  matter  with  him,"  I  said. 
"What  is  he  trying  to  tell  us?  He  looks  so  dis- 
turbed.    Why  does  he  point  to  his  copy?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  set  up  in  a  muddle,"  Lucian 
laughed.  "  Cuthbert  did  all  the  last  part — worked  all 
night  and  wouldn't  let  Uncle  Lew  stay.  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  half  the  type  were  upside  down." 

"It  is  not  like  him  to  take  that  sort  of  thing 
seriously,"  I  objected.  "  There  is  something  real 
the  matter." 


CONFLAGRATION  269 

"I  wonder  if  they're  selling  outside?'*  Lucian 
started  up.     "  I  wonder  if  I  can  get  a  copy?  " 

But  I  warned  him  that  he  would  never  get  in  again, 
and  he  reluctantly  sat  down  beside  me.     Then — 

"  Clara,"  he  said  after  a  few  minutes  of  silence, 
'*  Fm  afraid  The  Torch  ought  to  show  up  Tristram 
Lawrence.  I'm  afraid  it's  disloyal  to  the  party  not 
to  print  what  I  know " 

"  What  you  know?  "  I  repeated. 

"  Yes;  within  the  last  two  days  I've  got  hold  of 
pretty  good  evidence  that  he's  crooked.  That's  why 
my  conscience  troubles  me.  I've  been  trying  to 
persuade  myself  that  it's  the  sort  of  thing  a  gentle- 
man can't  touch.  But  I  don't  know — if  I  hadn't 
been  jealous  of  him  I  think  I  might  have  looked  at  it 
the  other  way  round,  and  known  that  I  owed  it  to  the 
city,  to  the  party,  to  clean  politics  everywhere " 

"  Jealous  of  him!  "  said  I. 

He  glanced  down,  sidewise  at  me,  ruefully.     **  I 

thought — I  thought "  he  said.     The  colour  rushed 

up  his  face,  and  mine. 

"  Don't  you  see?  "  he  began  again,  "  I  was  afraid 
I  wanted  to  blacken  him  for  personal  reasons.  And 
I  couldn't  do  that.  It's  the  personal  that  trips  us 
every  time." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  to  blame,  too!"  I  cried.  And 
then  I  told  Lazarus's  story.  '*  And  I  knew  I  ought 
to  get  Uncle  Lew's  advice,"  I  confessed.  "  But  it 
was  so  horrid,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  it.  And  to  turn  on  a  man  who  had  visited 
me;  who — who — Hked  me,"  I  ended  lamely.  "  Oh, 
I  couldn't!  Is  it  too  late?  Lucian,  do  you  suppose 
you  will  be  read  out  of  the  party  ?     It  was  my  fault." 


270  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"No;  mine  as  much,"  he  insisted.  "We  might 
go  to  Tristram — I  might — and  tell  him  I  know  and 
m  print  unless  he  resigns  the  nomination." 

"  Is — is  that  blackmail?  "  I  faltered. 

"  Why,  no!  Is  it?  "  He  laughed.  "  But  if  the 
strike  holds  out  we  may  not  be  able  to  get  out 
another  number  of  The  Torch,  We'll  see  what  Uncle 
Lew  says.  We  might  print  a  broadside  and  scatter 
it  on  street  comers.  Dio  mio,  do  you  suppose  we've 
got  to  be  as  vulgar  as  all  that?  " 

A  cane  reached  between  us  from  behind  and  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  Nicholas  again.  He  had 
a  copy  of  The  Torch  in  his  other  hand,  and  was  trying 
to  say  something  to  us.  We  saw  other  copies  of  the 
paper  in  the  back  of  the  hall.  Nicholas  finally  scribbled 
something  on  a  card  and  passed  it  over  to  Lucian. 

"  I  admire  your  nerve,"  we  read,  "  but  if  there's 
a  riot  in  this  place  you  ought  to  be  hung  for  it.  Why, 
in  the  name  of  conunon  sense,  couldn't  you  wait  till 
after  the  show  to  sell  your  firebrand?  " 

*'  What's  he  talking  about?  "  said  Lucian.  *'  Does 
he  think  they'll  fight  in  here  because  the  scabs  weren't 
wrecked?  Whom  would  they  fight?  What  a  fool 
he  is." 

And  just  then  I  saw  Bertha  Aarons  standing  against 
the  wall  at  the  side  of  the  room,  her  head  bent  over 
a  copy  of  The  Torch.  As  I  looked,  she  Hfted  her 
face — a  distorted,  livid  face;  and  she  tore  The  Torch 
across  and  across. 

"  Oh,  look  at  Bertha  Aarons!  "  I  exclaimed. 

But  Lucian  said,  "  S's'h'h,  here  they  are  at  last!  " 
And  the  speakers  and  other  dignitaries  came  filing 
in  upon  the  platform. 


CONFLAGRATION  271 

There  were  some  fifteen  or  twenty — an  impressive 
company;  among  them  a  Presbyterian  minister,  an 
Episcopal  clergyman,  the  president  of  a  college,  the 
head  of  the  Charity  Organisation  Society,  a  couple  of 
lawyers,  a  professor  of  economics,  —  a  woman,  — 
Tristram,  of  course,  the  marchese,  my  Cousin  Pauline, 
Helen.  Cyrus  came  last,  looking  particularly  absent 
minded,  a  strange  little  half-smile  on  his  lips,  and 
vision  in  his  eyes. 

'*  Far  from  this  our  war,"  Lucian  quoted  softly. 

But  I  said,  "  No;  not  as  far  as  he  looks." 

All  around  us  the  Italians  were  saying,  *'  Ecco  lo! 
Ecco  il  signore  Americano!  "  and  nudging  each  other 
and  smiling.  One  of  them  even  shouted,  "  Ewiva 
il  Signor  Emery!  " 

"Think  of  his  wanting  to  leave  it  all!  "  Lucian 
whispered.  "  Think  of  his  pining  for  prayerful 
solitudes  when  he  can  be  in  the  thick  of  a  fight  like 
this!  If  ever  anything  were  clear,  it  is  that  we've 
got  to  stay  in  the  struggle — the  general  struggle  I'm 
talking  about  now,  that  this  scrimmage  is  a  part  of — 
and  see  it  through." 

But  the  chairman — one  of  the  lawyers — was  intro- 
ducing the  first  speaker — a  member  of  the  state 
legislature — who  proceeded  to  expound: — The  evils 
of  internecine  controversy;  why  it  was  impossible 
that  America  should  ever  have  another  civil  war; 
why  it  was  incumbent  upon  the  government  never 
to  take  sides  in  economic  disagreements,  never  to 
legislate  for  a  class.  His  manner  was  the  heavy 
fatherly,  his  rhetorical  device  was  platitude.  He 
spoke  over  long  and  the  audience  grew  restive, 
shuffled  its  feet,  rattled  its  newspaper — there  seemed 


272  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

to  be  a  great  many  copies  of  The  Torch  selling.  But 
at  the  end,  when  he  reminded  his  hearers  casually  of 
other  strikes  in  other  cities,  where  the  troops  had 
been  called  out,  the  silence  was  so  threatening,  so 
sinister,  that  he  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse, 
trailed  on,  a  helpless  word  or  two,  and  stopped. 

For  an  ominous  second  there  was  no  sound.  Then 
he  rallied,  and  his  voice,  half  a  tone  higher  than 
before,  over-rode  the  stillness  hurriedly. 

"  Of  course — that  is  to  say — not  that  we  anticipate 
— not  that  you  or  I  anticipate  anything  of  that  kind 
in  this  instance " 

Nervously  blithe,  he  gave  us  his  reasons  for  this 
optimistic  certainty :  our  deep  sense  of  responsibility 
as  citizens — Americans  first  of  all,  capitalists  and 
trade  unionists  afterwards " 

A  voice  in  the  back  of  the  room  yelled  "No!  " 
but  another  said,  "Speak  up,  capital!"  and  the 
mood  of  the  audience  dissolved  in  laughter. 

The  legislator  smiled  as  if  he  were  faint,  and 
mopped  his  forehead.  He  would  take  only  one  more 
moment  of  the  meeting.  The  panacea  followed,  the 
proposal  for  a  council  of  arbitration — which  the  next 
speaker  would  explain. 

There  was  perfunctory,  scattered  applause — but  I 
saw  no  working  people  clapping. 

The  chairman  was  sure  that  we  should  all  be 
particularly  interested  to  listen  to  the  next  speaker, 
both  for  what  he  had  to  say,  and  for  what  he  was. 
His  intellectual  achievement  was  stressed,  his  im- 
selfish  patriotism — he  had  left  the  congenial  quiet  of 
his  study  at  the  city's  call — his  chivalric  pity — no 
one  had  worked  harder  to  bring  about  a  solution  of 


CONFLAGRATION  273 

the  present  difficulties.  This  new  proposal  for  arbi- 
tration, differing  in  certain  essentials  from  other 
proposals  which  had  been  made  earlier  in  the  strike, 
was  his  own  idea;  and  what  more  fitting  than  that 
he  should  explain  it.  The  next  speaker,  in  brief, 
was  Tristram  Lawrence. 

There  was  a  queer  stirring  throughout  the  hall. 
Tristram  made  his  bows — looked  out  on  the  audience 
— and  a  woman  at  the  side  of  the  hall  laughed,  a 
loud,  deliberate  laugh  of  insult.  Tristram's  face 
half  turned,  involuntarily,  toward  the  sound.  Then 
a  man  laughed,  blatantly.  I  saw  him — it  was 
Lazarus.  Then  another  woman,  three  or  four — and 
the  mob  had  caught  the  cue.  Like  fire  in  a  high 
wind,  outrageous  insolent  laughter  flamed  through 
the  hall.  Tristram  backed  one  step,  then  tried  to 
hold  his  ground,  mouthing  unheard  into  the  hysterical 
clamour,  making  ineffectual  gestures. 

"  What  is  it?  What  is  it?  "  Lucian  and  I  were 
staring  into  each  other's  faces. 

People  began  to  stand  up — to  scream  foul  words — 
unintelligible  taunts.  "  Compensations,  are  there?  " 
— "  Infected  with  Socialism." — "  Purify  him."  The 
air  was  thick  with  oaths,  and  with  tattered,  waving 
copies  of  The  Torch.  Some  one  thrust  the  paper 
under  our  eyes  —  and  there  it  was:  the  interview 
between  Tristram  and  the  merchant.  The  Scholar 
in  Politics.  The  Three-Cornered  Candidate  Cornered, 
was  the  title. 

"  Cuthbert!  "  I  gasped. 

*'  Stand  up,"  said  Lucian.     '*  Safer." 

In  a  moment  there  would  be  no  more  laughter, 
there  would  be  fury,  screaming. 


274  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  If  they  break  for  the  platform,  go  with  them — 
we  can't  hold  them  back — too  many  behind,"  Lucian 
said. 

And  then,  at  the  fury's  edge,  there  was  a  tremor, 
a  quenching  hesitance.  The  laughter  wavered — 
sank. 

Cyrus  had  touched  Tristram  on  the  shoulder — 
stood  now  in  Tristram's  place,  quietly  waiting, 
smiHng,  shaking  his  head  ever  so  sUghtly  in  depre- 
cation of  the  noise.  And  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
arisen  the  laughter  died,  as  the  wind  dies.  And 
among  the  belated  ripples  and  gusts  one  began  to 
hear  raucous  Italian  voices  shouting — "  Silenzio — 
shut  up!"  And  other  voices — "Sit  down!"  and 
others — "  Quiet!  " 

Cyrus  waited  until  the  last  voice  was  still. 

"  Think  of  my  little  brother's  being  able  to  do 
this!  "  whispered  Lucian.  "  A  close  call,  Clara,  and 
all  my  fault.  I  guess  we're  in  for  a  Hbel  suit.  Oh, 
joUy!" 

"  Your  fault?     Oh,  no!  "  I  protested. 

"T'sss!"  said  the  woman  next  to  me.  '*  VuoV 
parlare,"  indicating  Cyrus. 

II 

I  have  the  stenographer's  report  of  Cyrus's  speech 
beside  me,  as  I  write.  No  newspaper  ever  printed 
the  whole  of  it.  It  was  old  news  when  the  newspapers 
got  to  work  again,  Tuesday.  They  contented  them- 
selves with  mentioning  it,  in  retrospect,  and  depre- 
cating its  inflammatory  character,  while  eulogising 
the  speaker's  young  ideaHsm. 


CONFLAGRATION  275 

When  all  the  rustle  had  died  down,  all  the  admoni- 
tory voices  were  stilled,  Cyrus  said : — 

**  You  may  not  like  what  I  have  to  say." 

He  paused  significantly.  There  was  an  embar- 
rassed shuffling  in  the  audience. 

"  Shall  we  close  the  meeting?  '* 

The  crisp  brevity  of  the  question  made  one  blink. 
Then — its  meaning  penetrating — scattered  voices  cried 
— "  No;  no!  "— "  Speak!  "— "  We  like  your  speak!  " 

"  I  shall  speak  as  a  Christian.  There  are  a  great 
many  Jews  here,  a  great  many  atheists." 

"  We  giff  you  a  fair  show,"  said  a  voice  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall.  "  A  real  Christian,  he's  a 
curiosity." 

"  If  I  begin  I  shall  want  to  go  on  to  the  end.  You 
would,  you  know,  if  you  were  I." 

There  was  a  pleasant  ripple  of  laughter,  that  died 
away,  decorously,  after  a  moment. 

"  This  is  my  little  brother!  "  whispered  Lucian. 

"  We  are  all  peacemakers  in  this  hall  to-day. — 
Yes  " — his  voice  rode  above  the  mutinous  murmur. 
"  All  peacemakers.  We  may  disagree  as  to  what 
peace  is;  we  may  disagree  as  to  the  best  way  to  get 
it — by  striking,  by  arbitration,  by  calling  out  the 
troops — but  the  thing  we  are  all  after  is  peace.  You 
want  to  be  able  to  earn  a  decent  living  under  decent 
conditions;  and  we  want  you  to  do  it.  Yes,  we  do; 
every  man  and  woman  of  us  on  this  platform  is  here 
to-day  because  he,  or  she,  wants  to  find  a  way  to 
help  you  to  earn  a  decent  living  under  decent  con- 
ditions.    Don't  give  me  the  lie !  " 

They  didn't.  Their  eyes  were  grim,  but  he  had 
silenced  them. 


276  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

"  Now,  what  have  I  to  suggest  ?  What's  my 
Christian  way  of  making  peace?  Is  it  the  same  as 
your  trade  union  way? — Is  it  the  strikers'  way? — 
Are  strikers  Christian? — A  strike  is  a  fight — a  form 
of  war. — Is  there  any  Christianity  in  this  present 
strike?  " 

On  the  platform  the  dignitaries  nodded  at  each 
other  complacently.  I  looked  along  our  row  of  seats, 
and  every  face  strained  up  to  Cyrus's.  There  was 
a  slight  tension  in  my  neck.  He  straightened  his 
shoulders  and  took  breath.  There  was  utter  stillness 
throughout  the  hall. 

"  Christ  said — '  Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been 
said,  an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth:  but 
I  say  unto  you,  that  ye  resist  not  evil:  but  whoso- 
ever shall  smite  thee  on  thy  right  cheek,  turn  to  him 
the  other  also.  And  if  any  man  will  sue  thee  at  the 
law,  and  take  away  thy  coat,  let  him  have  thy  cloak 
also.  And  whosoever  shall  compel  thee  to  go  a  mile, 
go  with  him  twain.'  But  I  do  not  find  Him  any- 
where saying.  If  any  one  smite  thy  brother  on  his 
right  cheek,  do  thou  stand  by  and  hold  thy  hand 
while  thy  brother  is  beaten  to  death.  He  does  not 
say.  If  any  man  take  away  thy  brother's  coat,  let 
him  strip  thy  brother  naked  and  cast  him  out  to 
freeze.  He  does  not  say.  Whosoever  shall  compel 
thy  brother  to  go  a  mile,  do  not  thou  interfere  even 
though  he  harness  thy  brother  to  a  treadmill.  No; 
He  said — *  This  is  my  commandment.  That  ye  love 
one  another,  as  I  have  loved  you.  Greater  love  hath 
no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for 
his  friends.'  " 

There  was   a  tremendous  outburst   of  applause. 


CONFLAGRATION  277 

There  was  cheering.  Some  of  the  dignitaries  on  the 
platform,  behind  Cyrus,  glanced  sidewise  at  one 
another.  The  Presbyterian  minister  murmured  some- 
thing to  his  Episcopal  brother,  who  smiled  behind 
his  hand.  The  chairman  glanced  back  uneasily  over 
his  shoulder  at  Tristram,  made  a  motion  as  if  to  con- 
sult him,  then  thought  better  of  it.  But  the  noise 
was  brief,  people  were  eager  to  hear  more.  When 
Cyrus  began  again  there  was  a  glow  in  his  quiet 
voice;   and  the  great  audience  glowed  responsive. 

"  Me  you  may  smite;  but  my  brother — No! — Me 
you  may  rob,  me  you  may  starve,  me  you  may  bind 
in  the  treadmill  of  sweated  labour ;  but  my  brother — 
No!— No!" 

And  there  went  a  great  cry — was  it  anguish — was 
it  triumph  ? — through  the  hall. 

"  Well  then  our  question — Is  the  strike  a  Christian 
way  of  laying  down  one's  life  for  one's  friends — for 
one's  brothers  ? 

"  Understand  me: — To  riot  against  scabs  in  the 
streets  is  not  to  lay  down  one's  life  for  one's  friends. 
To  steal  out  at  night  to  wreck  a  train  filled  with 
workmen  who  do  not  happen  to  believe  in  trade 
unions,  is  not  to  lay  down  one's  life  for  one's  friends. 
But  to  refuse  to  work  for  a  wage  on  which  your 
brother  must  starve;  to  refuse  to  work  at  all  unless 
your  brother  be  given  wages  and  industrial  conditions 
that  shall  keep  his  soul  and  body  in  health;  to 
endure  hunger,  cold,  nakedness,  even  unto  death, 
that  your  brother  may  live — this,  this  it  is  to  love 
your  brother  as  yourself !  This  is  the  point  at  which 
resistance  and  non-resistance  meet  and  mingle,  and 
become  as  one. 


278  THE  CHILDRfiN  OF  LIGHT 

'*  It  rests  with  you — strikers — to  make  your  strike 
holy — or  heUish.  It  rests  with  you  to  make  this 
general  strike  the  holiest  of  all  strikes,  the  beginning 
of  the  world's  industrial  peace.  Oh,  you,  union  men 
in  organised  trades  with  a  hving  wage,  who  have 
gone  out  because  your  brothers  in  their  sweated 
trades  are  helpless  to  help  themselves — ^you  love 
much! — But  can  you  keep  it  up?  Can  you  really 
die  that  they  may  live  ?  I  hear  that  to-morrow  the 
teamsters  go  back  to  work — is  it  true?  I  hear 
rumours  of  this  and  that  organisation  filtering  back 
to  its  job.  Is  it  true,  my  brothers  ?  But  the  garment 
workers  have  not  won  their  cause  yet,  their  righteous 
cause.  Why  did  you  come  out  if  you  didn't  mean 
to  stay  out — if  you  didn't  mean  to  lay  down  your 
life? — You  thought  you  would  bluff  the  capitalist — 
was  that  it  ? — You  thought  you  would  frighten  him  ? 
You  will  when  you  lay  down  your  life;  not  before. 
When  you  lay  down  your  life  he  will  know  that  his 
hour  has  come — for  he  cannot  live  without  you. 
Then  you  shall  save  your  own  soul,  and  his — in  spite 
of  him.  This,  brothers,  some  of  you  call  Socialism. 
AUow  me  to  differ  with  you — it  is  Christianity.  It 
was  Christianity  before  SociaHsm  was  bom.  Will 
you  follow  it,  or  will  you,  for  the  sake  of  a  bluff,  and 
because  you  love  yourself  better  than  you  love  your 
fellow-men — plunge  us  into  anarchy  to-morrow?  // 
you  begin  to  go  hack  to  work  you  are  lost.  Oh,  if  I 
could  speak  as  one  of  you,  if  I  were  laying  down  my 
life,  a  striker  in  this  strike,  I  think  I  could  make  you 
listen,  I  think  I  could  persuade  you  to  this  peace- 
making! But  I  am  a  rich  man;  between  you  and 
me  there  is  a  great  gulf  fixed.     I  cannot  find  a  way 


CONFLAGRATION  279 

to  lay  down  my  life  for  you.  You  have  heard  how 
hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  God.  You  must  save  one  another,  that 
is  your  privilege.     Oh,  blessed,  blessed  are  ye  poor!  " 

We  sat  hushed  as  if  it  were  indeed  a  benediction. 
Then  some  one  broke  into  subdued  sobbing,  and  the 
applause  came  thundering  about  our  ears.  For 
several  minutes  after  Cyrus  had  sat  down  it  rose 
and  fell,  rhythmical,  overwhelming,  a  great  wave  of 
cheering  that  lifted  our  voices  up  out  of  our  hearts 
and  soared  with  them,  and  sank,  and  soared  again. 
I  shall  always  remember  Lucian's  face  as  he  sat  beside 
me  cheering  his  brother. 

On  the  platform  there  seemed  to  be  consultation. 
There  was  delay  in  introducing  the  next  speaker. 
The  applause  had  at  last  dwindled  to  a  spasmodic, 
intermittent  clapping. 

"  If  they  have  any  sense  they'll  close  this  thing 
up  now,'*  murmured  Lucian. 

'*  They  will  never  let  it  end  on  that  note,*'  I  replied. 
"  How  can  they,  with  their  principles  ?  And  they 
evidently  haven't  seen  The  Torch  yet." 

"  Jove!  They're  not  going  to  let  him  try  again?  '* 
Lucian  leaped  up  in  his  seat,  for  Tristram,  in  hurried 
conference  with  the  chairman,  was  rearranging  his 
notes.  "Heavens!  Can't  we  send  up  a  copy  of 
the  paper,  a  note,  something?  He  mustn't!  He 
mustn't!  "  He  caught  Tristram's  eye,  and  motioned 
him  back.  I  suppose  it  was  the  worst  thing  he  could 
have  done;  for  Tristram  looked  at  him,  and  at  me 
beside  him,  and  came  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
platform. 

"  As  the  days  are  short,"  he  began  rapidly,  "  and 


28o  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

there  is  no  way  of  lighting  the  hall,  we  shall  have  to 
close  the  meeting  in  about  fifteen  minutes." 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  all  about — whistles 
and  cat-calls — but  Tristram's  voice,  strained,  but 
resolute,  kept  on;  and  the  people,  whether  from 
surprise  at  his  persistence,  or  curiosity  to  hear  him, 
or  because  Cyrus  had  momentarily  softened  their 
mood,  at  last  subsided  into  comparative  quiet. 

Very  briefly  and  clearly  he  put  the  scheme  of  arbi- 
tration before  them  as  he  had  outlined  it  to  me  the 
night  before,  except  that  the  Council  of  Arbitration 
had  been  expanded  from  six  to  nine.  He  gave  the 
list  of  names — three  from  the  employers,  three  from 
the  unions,  three  from  the  public — two  of  these  to  be 
Helen  and  Cyrus — there  was  approving  applause. — 
And  the  strike  to  be  called  off  pending  the  decision 
of  the  council. 

"  No !  "  shouted  a  metallic  voice  at  the  side  of  the 
hall.  And  in  all  directions  the  word  was  taken  up. — 
"  No !  "— "  No !  "— "  No !  "—'  No !  "—a  storm  of  noes. 

"  And  the  council  to  delay  the  decision  till  after 
the  election?"  shouted  the  metallic  voice.  "No! 
I  say.  There  will  not  be  a  calling  off  of  this  strike 
until  the  council  makes  the  decision.*' 

We  could  not  make  out  the  man's  face  in  the  dusk, 
although  he  had  mounted  his  chair,  but  the  intonation 
was  Lazarus's  unmistakably. 

-  No!  "— "  No!  "—"  No  calUng  off!  "—the  people 
shouted. 

'*  Election?  "  roared  a  heavy  Irish  voice.  "  Friends 
of  labour,  I  ask  you,  will  any  self-respecting  working- 
man  vote  for  that  son  of  a  bitch — yes,  him? — I  ask 
you  will  any " 


CONFLAGRATION  281 

"  No!  "  —  "  No!  "  —  "  No!  "  —  "  KiU  him!  "— 
"  Throw  him  out!  "— "  Kill  him!  "— "  He'll  fool  our 
girls,  will  he !  " — **  Call  him  down !  "  Strange  epithets 
in  Yiddish,  in  Italian,  in  unprintable  English  hailed 
through  the  air. 

"  There  will  he  no  calling  off  of  this  strike  until  the 
decision  is  made.''  Lazarus's  voice  cut  through  the 
tumult  like  a  steam-hammer. 

"  No !  "  —  "  No !  "  — ''  You're  right !  "  —  '*  Throw 
him  out!  " — "  You're  right!  " 

"  And  not  then  if  the  people  don't  like  the  decision." 

"  The  people!  "— "  The  people!  "— "  The  voters!  " 
—"Throw  him  out!" 

"  There  won't  he  a  calling  off  of  this  strike  till  the 
people  are  satisfied.    Mr.  Emery  is  right " 

"  Emery!  "— "  Emery!  "— "  Emery!  " 

Even  through  that  tremendous  cheer  the  steam- 
hammer  made  itself  heard — "  Mr.  Emery  is  right  ; 
we  got  to  hang  on,  even  if  we  die  for  it !  " 

"  Die  for  it!  "— "  Yes!  "— "  Yes!  "—"  Emery!  "— 
"Emeiy!"—"  Emery!" 

Trailing  after  this  second  cheer  came  Tristram's 
insistent  voice: — 

**  I  am  a  peacemaker  too,  and  I  tell  you  on  autho- 
rity, if  this  state  of  anarchy  isn't  checked  by  another 
twenty-four  hours  the  federal  government  will  take 
a  hand.    The  troops " 

Menacing  voices,  menacing  hands  flared,  shadowy, 
everywhere. 

"  I  say  1  amz.  peacemaker.  But  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  all  this  talk  of  holding  on  is  futile. — You 
can't  hold  on " 

Vile  epithets  were  pelting  him  from  every  comer 


282  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

of  the  hall.  The  air  was  fuU  of  curses.  Demons 
seemed  to  be  dancing  on  chairs. 

"  /  don't  care  who  says  you  can '* 

There  was  an  unmentionable  epithet. 

A  shrieking,  infuriate  something  huried  itself  on 
the  platform,  and  there  was  a  man  grappUng  with 
Tristram — no — not  with  Tristram — with  Cyrus — 
this  dusk! — No — Cyrus  had  tripped  and  fallen — No? 
— No! — Who  had  fallen? — If  one  could  see! — Who? 
— Cyrus  ? — Who  ? 

And  then  that  terrible  cry : — 

"  E  morto  ! — E  morto  !  " 

And  between  us  and  the  platform  ten  rows  of 
struggling,  screaming  men  and  women. 

And  Lucian's  voice  crying — "  My  brother! — my 
brother! — Give  way! — My  brother! — Let  me  pass! — 
My  brother! — My  brother!  " 

III 

We  found  him  in  the  Uttle  bare  ante-room  that  is 
always  at  the  back  of  platforms.  A  doctor  and  a 
clergyman  came  out  as  we  got  to  the  door. 

"Go  in  quietly!"  said  the  doctor.  "Yes;  still 
living.  I  have  sent  your  mother  home  with  the 
marchese  to  get  his  room  ready. — No;  I  do  not  think 
we  shall  get  him  there;  but  she  excited  him — it  was 
better  for  them  both.  Call  me  if  you  need  me,  I 
shall  be  here." 

I  noticed  that  the  clergyman,  a  man  with  grey 
hair,  was  crying. 

Helen  had  had  the  janitor's  mattress  brought  up 


CONFLAGRATION  283 

and  laid  on  the  dusty  floor.  There  was  one  window, 
opening  on  an  air  well.  Helen  had  a  lighted  candle 
in  her  hand,  and  she  stood  behind  Cyrus,  at  his 
head,  so  that  the  light  should  not  shine  in  his  eyes. 

He  smiled  when  he  saw  us.  "  My  two!  "  he  said 
faintly.  And  to  Lucian,  "  Don't  mind! — You  know, 
I'm  not  keen  about  it  all — the  way  you  are. — It  will 
be  a  relief  to  tackle  a  new  set  of  problems." 

Lucian  could  not  speak.  We  were  kneeling  beside 
the  mattress. 

"  Don't  mind!  "  he  said  again,  more  faintly.  "  I 
don't  love  it  the  way — you — do.  That's — where  I 
fail — lacking  love.     I'm  only — conscience." 

Then  I  whispered,  "  Greater  love  hath  no  man 
than  this " 

"  But  I'm  not  fond  of  Tristram,"  he  replied.  "  It 
was  instinct — what  any  man  does — when  he  sees 
another  attacked.     I  sprang  automatically." 

"  The  others  shrank  back  automatically,"  com- 
mented Helen,  in  a  colourless  voice. 

"Helen?" 

At  his  question  she  came  where  he  could  see  her — 
shielding  the  candle  with  her  hand. 

**  Don't  forget  the  Bandinis.  Their  rent  is  due 
to-morrow.  Lucian  will  advance  the  money.  And 
Lorenzino — comes  out  of  the  hospital — next  week. 
And — Lucian — they  must  not  prosecute — that  poor 
mad  fellow. — They  must  not — he  did  not  mean " 

"  Don't  be  anxious,"  Helen  whispered.  "  He 
killed  himself.     It's  all  right." 

*'  Oh — poor  boy!  " 

After  that  he  lay  quite  silent,  looking  at  me,  never 
at  any  one  else  again.    And  I  put  my  hand  on  his. 


284  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

And  I  kissed  him,  and  kept  my  eyes  in  his.  We  did 
not  need  to  speak. 

At  the  very  end  he  Hfted  his  head  from  the  pillow 
and  repeated  those  hnes  of  Jacopone's,  "  By  despising 
mine  own  will  I  set  myself  free." 

"  Quanto  av\dlia  il  suo  volere 
Tan  to  sale  in  libertade." 

he  said;  and  then,  l5dng  back  again:  "  My  will — my 
desires;  death  cannot  free  me  from  these  chains — 
only  I." 

And  his  eyes  no  longer  saw  me. 

But  it  was  Helen  who  knew  that  he  had  gone. 
She  stooped  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   GLEAM 


Possibly  the  sun  shone  and  the  sky  was  blue, 
those  next  two  days — I  know  there  were  two  days — 
but  I  remember  only  night,  moving  continuous  round 
and  round  the  clock;  night  without  moon  or  star, 
a-shudder  with  dreadful  spasms  of  sound — and  yet 
more  dreadful  silences.  Always,  after  the  volley  of 
rifles,  there  would  be  a  moment  of  piercing  stillness, 
as  if  the  whole  world  had  been  slain  by  violence. 
Always,  after  the  trampling  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs, 
there  would  be  a  sudden  hush.  Once,  I  remember, 
I  thought  the  moan  of  the  mob  was  the  wind  moaning; 
it  came  and  screamed  at  our  street  comer,  where  a 
cordon  of  soldiers  shot  it  down  and  scattered  it.  At 
startling  intervals  the  fire  bells  pealed.  Near  the 
end  of  the  long,  dark  vigil  there  was  a  dynamite 
explosion  somewhere  so  near  that  the  glass  in  our 
windows  was  shattered.  And  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  tumult  of  death  and  dying,  our  boy  lay  wrapt  in 
his  eternal  quiet.  In  the  corners  of  his  young, 
unsmiling  mouth  wistfulness  still  lingered,  wistfulness 
and  patience  and  heart-break.     He  looked  so  tired. 

Sometimes  his  mother  came  into  the  room  and 
flung  herself  down  beside  him  and  begged  him  to 
forgive  her — and  had  to  be  led  away  and  soothed. 

285 


286  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

Sometimes  the  marchese  wandered  in  and  looked 
with  uncomprehending  pity  at  that  pure  face,  and 
said,  "  It  is  best,"  in  a  tone  of  resignation  and  relief. 
Lucian's  eyes  would  meet  mine  then,  scornful  and 
protesting.  We  sat  there  together,  long  hours, 
silent. 

The  second  day  Uncle  Lew  brought  Helen.  Stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room,  behind  her, 
he  beckoned  me  and  Lucian.  And  we  left  her  alone 
there. 

As  we  went  across  the  hall  to  the  dining-room  my 
Cousin  PauHne  ran  suddenly  out  of  her  room,  crying 
and  wringing  her  hands  and  caUing  Cyrus ;  and  when 
she  saw  Uncle  Lew  she  went  to  him,  piteously,  say- 
ing— "  I  have  done  this;  I,  I!  I  would  not  let  him 
go  when  he  asked  me  to.  He  would  have  been 
living  now  if  I  had  let  him  go,  I  was  selfish."  She 
clung  to  him,  wildly  searching  his  face  for  contra- 
diction. 

"You  were;  you  sure  were;  real  human  and 
selfish."  It  is  impossible  to  give  an  impression  of 
the  comforting  tenderness  of  Uncle  Lew's  voice. 

Staring  at  him,  bewildered  but  docile,  she  let  him 
lead  her  into  the  dining-room  and  put  her  in  a  chair. 

"  What  was  it  you  said  about  sinning  against  the 
Holy  Ghost — down  at  the  office?  "  she  whispered, 
still  clinging  to  him. 

"  I  don't  remember,  dear  marchese — I  say  so  many 
fool  things."  He  smiled  gently,  reassuringly,  as  one 
smiles  at  a  frightened  child. 

"I  have  killed  him,"  she  whispered,  "I,  I!" 
And  she  began  to  weep  again. 

Uncle  Lew  took  her  two  wild  hands  in  his.     "No; 


THE  GLEAM  287 

you  haven't,'*  he  said.  "  And  if  you  had? — I  killed 
my  wife.     We  have  to  bear  these  things." 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  hysterical  look  lift  off  of 
her  face,  Hke  a  veil;  to  see  the  normal,  startled 
question  in  her  eyes,  on  her  hps.  "  You — your 
wife?  "  And  then  leaning  towards  him  pityingly — 
"  Oh,  no;   you  mustn't  look  at  it  that  way." 

"No!  you  mustn't,"  he  repeated.  "I  had  to 
leam  that.    You  will  learn  it,  too." 

She  sat  quiet  with  her  hands  in  his  for  a  little 
while,  and  then  her  Up  began  to  quiver,  and  the  tears 
welled  into  her  appealing  eyes.  "  I  would  not  let 
him  go  away  and  say  his  prayers,"  she  sobbed.  "  See ! 
his  little  book!  "  She  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of  her 
wrapper  and  drew  out  a  tiny  manual  of  devotion  all 
rubbed  and  worn.  She  kissed  it  and  cried  over  it, 
and  at  last  said  she  would  go  and  He  down.  At  the 
door  of  her  room  she  turned — "  If  I  learned  to  pray — 
he  would  Hke  it?  " 

When  she  had  shut  her  door  we  went  back  to  the 
dining-room,  and  Uncle  Lew  said : — 

"  I  hunted  Cuthbert  up  this  morning.  He  has 
kept  out  of  my  way;  but  I  found  him." 

'*  I  cannot  imagine  Cuthbert  contrite  for  anything 
he  had  ever  done,"  I  said  rigidly. 

Uncle  Lew  gave  me  a  deprecating  look. 

"  I  do  not  blame  him  for  thinking  the  interview 
ought  to  be  printed,"  said  Lucian.  "  Teh  him  that, 
will  you?  " 

"  But  I  do  blame  him,"  I  interrupted,  "  for  selHng 
The  Torch  at  the  mass  meeting,  when  he  knew  what 
the  effect  of  the  interview  would  be.  It  was  a 
wicked,  a  wantonly  wicked  and  unprincipled  thing 


288  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

to  do.  It  was — death;  and  he  knew  it  would  be. 
I  cannot  forgive  him." 

"Now,  now,  Clara!"  Uncle  Lew  commented 
mildly.  "  Try  to  reaUse  that  Cuthbert  thought  he 
was  launching  the  Revolution.  He  thought  it  was 
up  to  him  as  a  loyal  Marxian  and  party  member  to 
press  the  button.  It  was  an  exalted  moment  for 
Cuthbert." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Lucian.  "  He  has  lived  up  to  his 
lights — Cuthbert  has — which  is  more  than  can  be 
said  of  you  and  me,  Clara." 

"  Oh — do  you  caU  hatred,  and  spite,  and  gross 
self-seeking,  and  self-conceit,  Ughts?  "  I  cried. 

"  I  found  him  in  his  room  in  his  boarding-house," 
said  Uncle  Lew.  "  He  hadn't  eaten  anything  since 
it  happened;  he  hadn't  had  his  clothes  off,  or  slept. 
When  he  saw  me,  he  said,  '  I  killed  him.  O  God! 
no  new  economic  system  can  ever  change  that.*  " 

"  Oh! — I  wiU  go  to  him!  "  Lucian  said.  "  Where 
did  you  leave  him,  Uncle  Lew?     I'll  go  now." 

"  I  sent  him  down  to  the  Socialist  headquarters  on 
an  errand,  after  I'd  made  him  eat.  If  you  can  think 
up  something  to  keep  him  occupied,  do !  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  forgive  him,"  I  insisted.  "  But 
tell  him  it  was  not  all  his  fault — it  was  our  fault, 
too." 

"  It  was  my  fault  for  not  looking  over  that  last 
page  after  it  was  set  up."  Uncle  Lew  patted  my 
hand.  "  Helen  told  me  she  must  be  back  at  the 
settlement  at  four  " — he  glanced  at  his  watch.  But 
Helen  had  not  waited  for  me,  she  came  into  the 
dining-room  as  Lucian  went  out. 

"  Clara,"  she  said  quietly,  "  there  is  a  little  note- 


THE  GLEAM  289 

book  that  has  all  of  Cyrus's  engagements  and  obliga- 
tions in  it — the  people  whose  rent  he  pays — and 
when — and  things  of  that  sort.  If  you  can  find  it 
and  let  me  take  it,  I  will  attend  to  everything.  It 
will  be  simpler  to  do  it  from  the  settlement  than 
from  here. — If  you  don't  mind." 

When  I  had  found  the  little  book  Uncle  Lew  and 
I  went  into  the  drawing-room  together  for  a  moment. 

"Darling  boy — darling,  darling  boy!"  he  said, 
crying  unashamedly.  '*  I  wonder  if  he's  got  his 
chance  for  solitude? — I  doubt  it.  I  very  much 
doubt  it. — The  glorious  company — the  noble  army — 
the  goodly  fellowship.  Party  methods  in  kingdom 
come,  same  as  now,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

Helen  sat  waiting  for  us  in  the  hall,  her  head  braced 
rigidly  against  the  high-backed  Gothic  chair. 

"  Stay  with  me,  dear!  "  I  begged.  "  Stay,  while 
he  is  here!    Don't  go  down  there  all  by  yourself!  '* 

"  He  is  not  here,"  she  answered. 

'*  Helen,  Helen — he  lives!     Believe  it!  "  I  pleaded. 

She  put  me  from  her  quietly.  "  I  must  go  to  old 
Mrs.  Vannucci;  he  always  sent  her  groceries  on 
Tuesdays;   she  may  be  suffering." 

After  they  had  gone  I  went  back  to  Cyrus.  Every- 
thing was  unwontedly  still.  I  realised  that  the  inter- 
mittent sounds  of  strife  no  longer  came  up  from  the 
street;  that  I  had  not  heard  them  for  a  long  time. 
Kneeling  beside  the  empty  tabernacle  of  my  cousin's 
spirit,  the  only  hermit  cell  that  had  been  granted 
him,  I  tried  to  pray — for  him.  But,  as  always, 
myself  intruded. 

What  did  we  pray  for  the  faithful  departed — 
Eternal  rest? — Light  perpetual? 


290  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

When  was  it  Cyrus  had  said,  "  If  only  I  could  be 
in  accord,  entirely,  with  some  one,  what  a  rest  it 
would  be?  " — Party  methods  in  kingdom  come? 

When  was  it  he  had  said,  "  Can  one  be  too  indi- 
vidual? " — Party  methods? 

When  was  it  he  had  said,  "  How  can  any  one  be 
anything  but  tentative  in  a  civihsation  so  out  of 
joint?  " — Party  methods,  same  as  now? 

When  did  he  say — ah,  yes,  in  the  La  Vema  letter 
— "  How  can  any  one  make  decisions  that  involve 
living,  in  a  world  that  so  manifestly  isn't  fit  to  be 
lived  in?  " — Decisions? — But  Christ  made  decisions, 
Cyrus;   why  not  you — and  I? 

Decisions? — What  to  decide? — Light  perpetual, 
illumine  our  groping  darkness — his  and  mine ! 

**  Oh,  if  I  could  speak  as  one  of  you,"  he  said,  two 
days  ago,  "  I  think  I  could  persuade  you  to  this 
peace-making." 

But  I  could  speak  as  one  of  them,  if  I  would. — 
As  one  of  them? — Could  I? — By  taking  out  a  red 
card  and  paying  dues  ?  Was  it  as  simple  as  that  ? — 
Was  Lucian  really  one  of  them?  What  did  class 
involve  after  all? — That  glorious  company  of  the 
apostles,  chiefly  ignorant  fisherfolk;  was  Paul  really 
one  of  them?  There  was  friction  between  him  and 
Peter,  they  say. 

And  I,  calling  myself  a  SociaHst  and  believing  that 
economic  salvation  shall  be  of  the  common  people; 
that  the  truth  is  with  them — where  do  I  belong? 
If  not  with  them,  then  where? — Whether  they  will 
or  not;  whether  I  will  or  not;  is  it  not  true  that  I 
am  one  of  them — one  with  them? — Cyrus,  dear,  isn't 
it  true  ? 


THE  GLEAM  291 

"  It  worries  me  a  good  deal  to  be  responsible  for 
other  people's  sins  " — when  did  he  say  that?— Years 
ago.  But  I  am  responsible  for  them,  dear,  whether 
I  will  or  no ;  and  what  is  worse,  they  are  responsible 
for  mine. 

Eternal  rest! — But  doesn't  one  find  it  in  sharing 
the  load? 

"  Can  one  be  too  individual?  " — But  Cyrus,  even 
Christianity  isn't  Christ  against  the  world;  it's 
Christ  and  His  party  against  the  world. 

You  said  to  me  once — "  Christianity  is  enough. 
Can  you  call  yourself  a  Christian  and  say  that  any- 
thing else  is  needed?  " — Cyrus,  do  you  remember? — 
But  the  leaven  of  Christianity  has  made  this  ferment 
we  call  SociaHsm.  Before  Christianity  came  into  the 
historical  process,  SociaUsm  would  not  have  been 
possible.  It  isn't  a  choice  between  Socialism  and 
Christianity  that  I  make.  It  isn't  leaving  Christ's 
party  to  join  the  SociaHsts'.  Christianity  is  the  road 
we  travel  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  for  me,  one 
of  the  sign-posts  on  the  way  is  Socialism.  I  cannot 
help  it,  dear,  it  is  so.  I  am  going  to  join  the  Socialist 
Party. 

"  Arise,  O  Jerusalem,  and  stand  on  high,  and 
behold  thy  children  gathered  from  the  west  unto  the 
east  by  the  word  of  the  Holy  One,  rejoicing  in  the 
remembrance  of  God.    Amen." 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord. 
Eternal  rest  grant  unto  them,  O  Lord;  and  let  light 
perpetual  shine  upon  them." 


Lucian,  coming  in,  touched  the  electric  switch  and 

T2 


292  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

turned  on  some  of  the  soft,  shaded  lights  in  the 
ceiling. 

"They  light?"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  To-morrow  the  trolleys  will  be  running. 
It  is  practically  over.  There  never  was  any  real 
fighting.  They  weren't  prepared  for  that  sort  of 
leadership.  They  had  no  guns,  you  know.  I  don't 
know  that  a  general  strike  can  succeed  imless  it  is 
nation-wide;  and  our  nation  is  so  very  wide.  In 
England  it  might  be  different." 

He  spoke  softly,  his  eyes  on  his  brother's  sleeping 
face. 

"  Wilt  thou  wake  us  at  dawn  on  the  morrow,  ere  daylight  is 
rife? 
Wilt  thou  teach  us,  recruits  in  thine  army,  to  battle  like 

men? 
Wilt  thou  lighten  our  darkness,  O  Lord,  wilt  thou  bless  us, 

and  then 
Wilt  thou  grant,  though  the  people  be  dumb,  yet  thy 
martyrs  through  strife 

Shall  rise  up  out  of  death  into  life 
Once  again  ? 
Amen,  Lord,  Amen !  " 

Then  his  face  became  suddenly  distorted,  and  he 
flung  up  his  hands  with  a  desperate  gesture,  whisper- 
ing— "O  God!  this  contemptible  ego  of  mine  that 
can  juggle  with  metres  when  my  brother  lies  dead! 
That  can  savour  the  literary  possibiHties  of  a  lost 
strike!  O  God! — O  God! — They  were  real  to  him. 
He  suffered  with  them  in  every  fibre  of  his  being — 
in  every  thought  he  was  one  with  their  suffering. 
See  his  dear  face,  all  love-ht,  all  sorrowing,  even 
though  the  spirit  is  gone.     But  I  cannot  suffer.     I 


THE  GLEAM  293 

can  only  enjoy,  with  a  terrible  enjoyment,  the  woe 
of  the  worid/' 

I  clung  to  him  and  tried  to  comfort  him;  and 
when  he  saw  me  crying  he  comforted  me,  till  at  last 
we  were  both  quieter. 

*'  If  we  had  let  him  go  away  as  he  wanted  to," 
Lucian  said,  "  he  would  have  come  back  to  lead  us. 
— Let  us  think  so!  " 

"  Yes,  let  us  think  so,"  I  whispered.  "  He  wanted 
to  go  away  that  he  might  become  more  one  with  the 
world,  and  God.  He  wanted  to  free  himself  from  all 
the  chains  of  self — do  you  remember? — And  the 
vision  beckoned  him  that  way." 

"  And  me  it  beckons  in  the  party." 

"  And  me." 


II 

For  what  follows,  I  have  enough  material  in  my 
diaries  and  correspondence,  and  in  the  newspaper 
files  of  the  trial,  to  fill  a  volume  as  large  again  as  this 
that  I  have  written — if  it  were  worth  while.  Possibly, 
in  omitting  the  long  and  tedious  evidence  by  which 
the  jury  arrived  at  its  decision,  my  selective  instinct 
errs.  But  to  me  it  seems  that  those  long  days  of 
quibble  in  the  court-room  add  nothing  to  the  revela- 
tion of  Tristram's  attitude,  contained  in  his  letter  to 
me,  but  rather  tend  to  beUttle  him  to  an  extent  that 
he  hardly  deserves. 

The  letter  reached  me  in  the  morning  mail  the  day 
after  Lucian  was  arrested,  in  that  short  week  that 
intervened  between  Cyrus's  funeral  and  the  election. 

The  arrest  had  found  me  wholly  unprepared. 


294  THE  CHILDREN^  OF  LIGHT 

''  But  Cyrus  saved  Tristram's  life,"  I  said,  when 
Lucian,  after  securing  bail,  came  home  and  broke 
the  news  to  me. 

"  Yes;  but  you  see,  Tristram  is  driven  to  it,*'  he 
explained.  "  He  has  put  the  Reform  Party  into  the 
worst  kind  of  a  hole.  If  he  keeps  the  nomination 
and  makes  no  move  against  us,  he  has  queered  the 
Reform  vote;  for  the  high-brows  may  be  dull  but 
they're  moral,  you  know  —  they'll  desert  him  on 
principle  and  let  reform  go  hang.  And  if  he  resigns 
the  nomination,  he  tacitly  admits  our  imputation 
and  involves  the  Citizens*  League;  for  everybody 
will  say  they  knew  what  he  was  up  to  and  winked  at 
it — they're  sa5dng  it  now.  I  don't  believe  they  could 
get  any  workable  candidate  to  take  the  nomination 
if  he  resigned  it.  And  besides — if  he  doesn't  protest 
against  us,  where's  his  own  reputation?  He'll  be 
dead — oh,  far  more  dead  than — than " 

"  Still,  I  do  not  see  why  he  is  driven  to  it,"  I 
rephed. 

Lucian  smiled;  and  I  persisted,  "  If  he  did  it,  how 
does  he  improve  his  reputation  by  lying  about  it?  " 

"  To  proclaim  one's  self  a  sinner  may  be  com- 
paratively easy,  Clara;  but  to  acknowledge  one's  self 
a  fool? — Trissy?  " 

"  But  hasn't  he  spoiled  his  chances  whether  or  no? 
And  you  say  the  trial  cannot  take  place  for  six  weeks 
or  more — when  the  election  will  be  ancient  history  ? — 
I  don't  see " 

**  He  makes  his  protest.  He  does  what  he  can  to 
save  his  face,  and  the  league's.  It  will  have  a  certain 
weight  with  the  uptown  vote.  Of  course,  he  hasn't 
the  ghost  of  a  show  of  election,  now  that  labour  has 


THE  GLEAM  295 

turned  him  down.  Are  you  coming  with  me  to  break 
it  to  mother  ?  Stress  our  ideals  as  much  as  you  can, 
dear,  and  touch  lightly  on  the  arrest;  she  may  not 
take  that  in  as  long  as  I  am  not  actually  in  jail.  We 
must  muzzle  the  marchese  before  he  comes  from  his 
club." 
The  next  morning  came  the  letter. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Emery, — If  I  offend  in  addressing 
you;  if,  after  my  unpardonable  offence  against  your 
cousin's  memory,  against  you  and  all  his  family, 
there  is  still  room  for  offending,  nevertheless,  I  beg 
that  in  your  unfailing  courtesy  you  will  not  leave  this 
letter  unread.  To  you,  as  to  no  one  else,  I  look  for 
understanding  of  my  action  in  this  dilemma  in  which 
I  am  involved  by  the  article  in  The  Torch. 

**  You  will  be  told  that  I  yielded  to  pressure  in 
proceeding  against  the  paper.  It  is  true;  I  did.  But 
I  ask  you  to  believe  that  it  was  pressure  from  within, 
from  my  conscience,  not  from  without.  You,  who 
said  to  me  in  The  Torch  office,  not  so  long  ago,  that 
as  between  the  individual  and  the  cause  it  could 
never  be  a  question  of  the  individual — that  one  must 
learn  to  put  the  cause  before  the  individual — you  will 
understand  that  in  outraging  all  my  own  instincts  of 
gratitude  and  the  world's  canons  of  convention,  I 
am  trying,  in  very  truth,  to  put  the  cause  before 
the  individual,  the  integrity  of  the  Citizens*  League 
before  my  own  debt  to  the  family  of  the  man  to  whom 
I  owe  my  life.  I  ask  you  to  believe  also,  that  although, 
as  is  evident,  I  have  not  been  an  apt  pupil,  I  have 
endeavoured  to  square  my  motives  at  every  point  in 
the  campaign  with  this  ideal  of  yours — the  cause 


296  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

before  the  individual — which  now  is  wrecking  my 
life.  If  I  have  failed  it  has  not  been  through  impurity 
of  motive. 

"  Life  is  made  up  of  a  succession  of  choices  between 
two  evils.  You  will  contradict  me  here,  because  you 
are  a  woman,  and  the  ideaHsm  of  women  deals  with 
absolutes;  the  relatively  good  has  no  existence  for 
them.  For  the  sake  of  the  integrity  of  the  race,  it 
is  well  that  this  should  be  so ;  but  we  men  who  must 
carry  ideals  into  action  know  that  mingled  with  our 
every  good  choice  there  is  some  modicum  of  evil; 
and  that  no  matter  how  egregiously  we  may  blunder, 
some  good  will  result  from  oiu:  most  evil  choosing. 
I  do  not  offer  this  in  mitigation  of  my  present  action, 
however.  My  decision  has  been  made  in  deep  anguish 
of  mind.  Possibly  I  am  only  adding  one  more  error 
of  judgment  to  the  chain  which  I  have  forged  for 
myself  during  my  brief  poUtical  activity;  but  for 
the  sake  of  the  Citizens'  League  and  all  its  individual 
members  who  have  championed  me,  and  still  do 
champion  me  so  trustingly,  I  do  not  see  that  I  can 
do  anything  else. 

'*  Shall  I  confess  that  I  am  not  yet  sufficiently 
schooled  in  your  doctrine  to  endure  without  bitterness 
the  reaUsation  that  you  could  so  prefer  the  party 
before  the  individual,  the  candidate  before  the  friend, 
as  to  deem  yourself  justified  in  withholding  from  me, 
the  last  time  I  called  upon  you,  the  knowledge,  which 
you  must  have  then  possessed,  that  this  blow  was 
to  faU? 

"  We  grope  from  error  to  error  hke  our  cosmic 
prototype,  that  blind  choice  which  rules  the  world, 
whose  unforgivable  error  it  is  that  I  am  living  now. 


THE  GLEAM  297 

while  your  Cousin  Cyrus  is  struck  out  of  life;  that 
his  purity  and  power  are  sacrificed  to  prolong  my 
sullied  ineffectiveness. 

"  I  shall  not  intrude  upon  you  again. — Sincerely 
yours,  Tristram  Lawrence." 

It  made  me  very  unhappy,  of  course;  the  more  so 
because  I  could  not  write  him  and  explain  that  I 
had  not  known,  the  night  he  called,  that  the  article 
was  to  be  in  the  paper  the  next  day.  Lucian  insisted 
that  as  the  responsibility  for  the  appearance  of  the 
article  rested,  at  bottom,  with  him,  it  was  both 
unnecessary  and  unwise  to  take  the  public  into  our 
confidence  as  to  the  way  in  which  it  had  got  into 
print.  Cuthbert  rebelled  at  this,  and  was  very 
truculent — I  liked  him  the  better  for  it.  But  Lucian 
at  last  persuaded  him  that  for  the  sake  of  the  party, 
and  for  the  sake  of  our  own  defence  in  the  trial,  it 
was  much  wiser  that  the  Socialist  candidate  for  mayor 
should  not  figure  as  the  deUberate  defamer  of  his 
rival. 

"  That's  what  it  would  amount  to,  you  know," 
Lucian  reminded  him.  "  And  there  is  already  a 
general  impression  in  polite  circles  that  the  Socialist 
Party  is  made  up  of  a  lot  of  blacklegs.  We  don't 
want  to  give  colour  to  that  impression.  No,  sir! 
The  role  of  hero  in  this  melodrama  is  bespoke;  the 
limelight  for  mine.  The  rest  of  you  will  kindly 
retire  to  the  flies." 

"  And  you  go  to  jail  for  a  year,  for  me!  "  cried 
Cuthbert  angrily.     *'  Not  if  I  know  it!  " 

"No,  not  for  you,  my  egoist;  for  the  party," 
Lucian    answered,    smiling.      "  You    hide  -  bound, 


298  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

narrow-gauge,  Marxian  bigot,  you!  I  know  you 
think  you're  the  whole  thing;  but  I'm  the  party, 
too.  And  I've  a  right  to  keep  you  out  of  jail  if  it 
will  save  the  party  from  scandal." 

*'  By  God,  I  always  have  to  take  a  back  seat  for 
you!  "  cried  Cuthbert. 

"  Tchutt,  don't  swear!  lady  present,"  said  Uncle 
Lew. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Lucian  exclaimed. 
*'  When  have  you  ever " 

**  None  of  your  damn  business !  Leave  me  alone !  *" 
shouted  Cuthbert.  And  then  he  dropped  his  head 
on  his  arms  on  the  desk,  and  said,  "  Oh,  say;  let  up! 
I'm  all  in;  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying." 

Uncle  Lew  went  over  and  patted  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "  It  was  a  heroic  act  of  insubordination, 
son;  we're  all  of  us  glad  you  did  it.  But  it  was 
insubordination,  just  the  same;  now,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  If  only  I  hadn't  started  the  sale — but  I  thought — " 
murmured  Cuthbert. 

"No;  we're  not  talking  about  that — we're  talking 
about  the  printing  of  the  article.  That  was  insubor- 
dination. The  other  was  —  was  —  an  indiscretion. 
But  for  insubordination,  when  the  chief  here  says 
take  a  back  seat,  why,  it's  only  right.  Discipline, 
you  know.  Marxians  have  a  lot  to  say  about  dis- 
cipline. I  guess  you'll  have  to  take  your  medicine 
and  step  into  the  wdngs." 

"  I've  been  looking  up  publisher's  liability,"  said 
Cuthbert  slowly,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  desk  before 
him,  "  and  on  a  criminal  charge  of  Hbel,  if  the  truth 
of  the  defamatory  matter  is  proved,  the  prosecution 
has  to  show  that  the  defendant  in  a  legal  sense 


THE  GLEAM  299 

actually  participated  in  or  authorised  the  publication, 
and  with  actual  malicious  intent.  And  I  believe  that 
generally  in  a  criminal  court  negligence  or  blame  must 
be  proved,  to  get  a  conviction.  You  didn't  know 
anything  about  that  article.  You  can  get  out  of  it 
that  way.'* 

"  Don't  let's  go  over  all  that  again,"  Lucian  inter- 
rupted. "I'm  not  going  to  get  out  of  it  that  way. 
You  wouldn't  have  me,  would  you,  Clara?  " 

"  No;  but  I  like  Cuthbert  to  press  it." 

He  lifted  those  wretched  eyes  of  his  to  mine  for 
a  second.  There  was  a  miserable,  grudging  gratitude 
in  them  that  brought  a  lump  into  my  throat. 

"  They  can't  prove  that  you  did  it  maliciously," 
I  added. 

"Oh,,  malice,  legally,  means  only  absence  of  lawful 
excuse,"  Uncle  Lew  explained. 

Lucian  smiled  at  my  indignation.  "  The  next 
thing  for  us  to  do,"  he  said,  "  is  to  consult  a  lawyer 
and  find  out  where  we  really  do  stand." 

Just  then  Lazarus  Samson  came  in.  I  had  been 
wondering  where  he  was.  He  had  Bertha  Aarons 
with  him,  and  his  smile  flashed  and  flashed  again 
across  his  face  like  an  electric  light  whose  connection 
is  not  perfect. 

Assisting  Bertha's  elbow  he  brought  her  over  to  me. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  here.  Miss  Emery,"  he  said. 
*'  I  made  her  to  come.  She  is  Mrs.  Samson  now,  just 
since  twenty  minutes." 

Bertha  was  actually  blushing,  but  she  tried  to 
carry  off  her  embarrassment  with  bravado.  "  Yes," 
she  acknowledged,  "  we  went  before  a  justice  of  the 
peace.    Wouldn't  that  jar  you!  " 


300  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

We  gathered  round  them,  shaking  hands  and  con- 
gratulating them,  and  Uncle  Lew  and  I  kissed  the 
bride.  Dear  little  Lazarus  could  only  smile  and 
smile  and  smile. 

"  Miss  Emery,"  Bertha  said,  brushing  aside  our 
hymeneal  amenities,  '*  do  you  know  what?  Mar- 
kowsky's  has  agreed  to  treat  with  their  girls  as  if 
they  are  a  union.  They  don't  say  union,  but  they 
will  make  the  bargain  with  one  girl  for  all  instead  of 
every  girl  separate.  If  a  new  girl  comes  in  and 
wants  to  make  her  separate  bargain  they  say  she  can. 
So  now  it's  up  to  us  to  head  the  new  ones  ofi  and  give 
them  their  orders  before  they  see  the  foreman.  It's 
something,  ain't  it?  " 

"  But  you  won't  be  at  Markowsky's  now,"  I 
reminded  her. 

"No;  but  that's  one  good  thing,  because  now  I 
shall  give  my  time  with  the  Women's  Trade  Union 
League  and  get  hold  of  those  poor  women  that  just 
have  come  over,  and  organise  them," 

"  How  do  you  come  in,  Lazarus?  "  laughed  Uncle 
Lew. 

"  Oh,  I  come  in  with  a  latch-key,  all  right,  all  right," 
he  clicked  gaily.  "  We  got  a  little  flat  with  a  bath- 
room and  a  gas  range.  We  shall  go  now  to  buy 
furniture.  There  is  a  damage  sale  from  the  dynamite 
explosion." 

So  presently  he  carried  Bertha  off;  but  before 
she  went,  as  she  was  shaking  hands  again  aU  round, 
suddenly  with  her  hand  in  Lucian's  her  face  changed. 
"  Oh,  I  never  believed  in  saints,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
do  now.  That  was  why  I  let  the  justice  of  the  peace 
tie  me  up.     I  knew  your  brother  would  like  it  better. 


THE  GLEAM  30.1 

The  strikers  can't  do  much  to  show  the  way  they 
feel.  He  poured  out  his  money  hke  water  through 
a  sieve.  Christianity!  I  bet  the  ministers  that  sat 
behind  him  on  the  platform  got  a  shock.'* 

It  was  after  they  had  gone,  and  Cuthbert  with  them, 
that  I  showed  Uncle  Lew  and  Lucian  Tristram's 
letter.  Lucian  read  it  over  Uncle  Lew's  shoulder 
and  finished  first.     His  comment  was  characteristic : — 

"  I  should  like  to  kick  him.     Putting  it  all  on  you." 

I  hadn't  thought  of  that. 

But  Uncle  Lew  said — "  Poor  devil!  I  reckon  he 
does  wish  he  was  dead ;  and  he'll  wish  it  worse  later, 
even  if  he  secures  a  verdict  against  Lucian.  This  is 
the  sort  of  thing  that  sticks  to  a  man." 

**  Even  if  he  clears  himself?  "  I  asked. 

Uncle  Lew  only  looked  at  me,  and  then  at  the 
letter,  and  back  again  at  me,  significantly. 

*'  Perhaps,"  I  suggested,  "  he  is  too  proud  to  deny 
it.  He  thinks  I  ought  to  know  that  he  doesn't  need 
to  deny  a  thing  like  that?  " 

"  Then  he  wouldn't  talk  so  much  about  the  purity 
of  his  motives,"  Lucian  blurted  out  disgustedly. 

"  But  I  want  to  think  him  honest,"  I  pleaded. 

"  Well,  dear,  there's  one  thing  you  can  bank  on," 
Uncle  Lew  remarked,  "  and  that  is  that  he  knows 
a  heap  more  about  honesty  than  he  ever  did  before. 
Politics  is  a  great  eye-opener,  especially  for  the  men 
who  get  their  knowledge  of  the  abstract  virtues  out 
of  Socrates  and  Plato.  When  they  see  the  real  thing 
they  don't  always  recognise  it — at  first." 


302  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 


IV 

The  election  was,  as  we  had  known  it  would  be, 
an  overwhelming  defeat  for  the  party  of  reform; 
but  the  effect  on  the  Socialist  vote  surprised  us  all. 
The  Torch's  exposure  of  Tristram  turned  labour  our 
way,  and  there  was  one  unhappy  moment,  while  the 
returns  were  coming  in,  when  it  actually  looked  as 
if  Cuthbert  had  a  chance  of  election. 

Lucian,  at  the  telephone  repeating  the  figures, 
gazed  at  me  in  frank  despair.  Fortunately  Cuthbert 
was  down  at  the  Socialist  headquarters  and  could  not 
see  our  faces. 

**  Now  we  see  what  we  get  for  not  being  ready," 
sighed  Lazarus.  "  That  kid,  he  will  set  back  our 
clock  ten  years  in  this  town." 

But  the  moment  passed,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
evening  the  Machine  candidate  had  come  in  on  a 
respectable  majority. 

The  Conservative  press,  all  the  papers  in  fact,  laid 
the  blame  of  the  fiasco  upon  The  Torch.  Our  irre- 
sponsible, anarchical,  revolutionary,  pernicious,  etc., 
etc.,  policy  was  made  the  subject  of  editorial  com- 
ment in  all  the  important  periodicals.  Lucian's 
services  to  the  community  were  contemptuously 
paralleled  with  those  of  Tristram,  his  "  sensational 
and  histrionic  efforts  after  publicity "  with  the 
latter's  "  steady  and  statesmanlike  subordination  of 
himself  to  the  people's  need."  Lucian  did,  indeed, 
cut  a  very  poor  figure  in  the  eyes  of  most  people  at 
that  time,   I  know;    and  he  still  does.     I  try  to 


THE  GLEAM  303 

console  myself  by  remembering  that  Shelley  cut  a 
poor  figure,  and  Ruskin;  but  literary  analogies  are 
poor  comfort. 

When  the  trial  opened  (it  was  set  for  the  earliest 
possible  date,  and  there  were  no  delays)  the  sympathy 
of  the  "  solid  "  members  of  the  community  was  all 
with  Tristram;  even  those  who  admitted  that  he 
might  have  played  fast  and  loose  with  the  strikers 
said,  "  Well,  suppose  he  did,"  and  went  on  to  show 
how  circumstances  alter  cases,  and  how  he  was  in  a 
tight  place,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  And  throughout 
the  trial — it  lasted  only  three  days — pubhc  sentiment 
did  not  waver.  The  two  great  classes,  capital  and 
labour,  never  displayed  their  unconquerable  antagon- 
ism more  convincingly. 

By  the  end  of  the  second  day  I  realised  that  Lucian 
had  no  chance.  With  what  the  marchese  exasper- 
atedly  described  as  "  his  usual  quixotism,"  he  had 
insisted  upon  engaging  as  his  lawyer  a  young  SociaUst 
comrade  who  had  never  before  tried  a  case  in  court. 
The  boy  did  very  well,  considering  the  odds  against 
him;  but  Tristram's  counsel  was  one  of  the  most 
eminent  men  in  the  state.  Somehow,  he  managed 
to  create  and  sustain  the  impression  that  he  was 
dealing,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  with  the 
regrettable  escapade  of  a  very  naughty  boy.  The 
man  who  cleaned  the  windows  in  the  department 
store  office,  and  upon  whom  we  had  to  depend  to 
establish  the  truth  of  the  published  interview,  was 
as  wax  in  his  hands.  Lazarus  gave  him  more  trouble, 
but  unfortunately  lost  his  temper  when  questioned  as 
to  Bertha's  relations  with  the  plaintiff.     I  was  let 


304  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

off  with  a  few  perfunctory  questions.  The  others 
were  well  badgered.  Uncle  Lew  was  treated  as  a 
corrupter  of  youth,  as  one  who  was  old  enough  to 
know  better. 

Yet,  despite  the  masterly  cross-examination,  despite 
the  flabbiness  of  the  window-washer,  the  untruthful- 
ness of  the  published  interview  was  not  conclusively 
established.  But,  as  the  court's  ruling,  according 
to  precedent,  was  to  the  effect  that  although  in  every 
case  the  truth  of  the  matters  charged  may  be  inquired 
into  if  pleaded,  nevertheless  in  criminal  libel  the 
truth  does  not  amount  to  a  defence  unless  it  be  also 
proved  that  the  pubHcation  was  for  the  pubUc  benefit 
— counsel  for  the  plaintiff  conducted  the  examination 
of  witnesses  both  for  and  against  the  truth  of  the 
interview  as  if  it  were  merely  a  concession  on  his 
part  to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  comi:  and  not  germane 
to  the  issue. 

Our  defence,  aside  from  our  plea  of  truth,  was 
conducted,  of  course,  on  the  ground  that  comments 
on  subjects  of  pubhc  interest,  or  on  persons  who  have 
in  any  way  chosen  to  invite  the  pubUc  attention,  are 
not  actionable  unless  it  can  be  proved  that  the  critic 
has  used  false  and  defamatory  language  out  of  malice, 
or  gone  beyond  the  facts  which  are  properly  before 
the  public. 

But  counsel  for  the  plaintiff — who,  it  happened, 
was  one  of  the  lawyers  on  the  platform  at  the  mass 
meeting — gave,  in  his  summing  up,  such  a  picture  of 
the  chaos  and  violence  of  that  afternoon,  resultant 
upon  the  pubHcation  and  sale  of  The  Torch,  that  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  conveying  to  the  jury  the  im- 


THE  GLEAM  305 

pression  that  the  publication  was  not  for  the  pubUc 
benefit.  And  the  judge's  charge  strengthened  this 
impression. 

Yet,  to  our  surprise,  the  jury  was  out  two  hours. 
When  it  finally  came  into  court  the  foreman  an- 
nounced a  verdict  of  guilty,  but  added  that  the  jury 
was  not  agreed  as  to  the  conclusiveness  of  the  evidence 
against  the  truthfulness  of  the  publication. 

The  judge  then  gave  the  maximum  sentence  for 
libel  in  our  state,  a  fine  of  $5000.00  and  imprisonment 
in  the  county  jail  for  one  year. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  court-house  a  messenger 
brought  me  a  scribbled  note  from  Lucian: — 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  with  you  to  break  it  to  mother. 
Play  Leigh  Hunt  for  all  he's  worth;  he  had  quite  a 
jolly  time  in  jail  serving  time  for  calling  the  Prince 
of  Wales  a  fat  Adonis,  you  know.  Make  her  see  that 
it's  victory  after  all,  if  you  can. — But  it  leaves  a 
bitter  taste  in  one's  mouth  to  call  another  man  a 
liar,  doesn't  it?  '* 


It  is  for  my  Cousin  Pauline's  sake  that  I  am 
spending  this  year  in  Italy.  She  had  a  very  alarming 
nervous  breakdown  after  the  trial.  The  two  shocks, 
following  so  closely  one  upon  the  other,  of  Cyrus's 
death  and  Lucian's  imprisonment,  completely  pros- 
trated her,  and  there  was  great  danger  that  she  would 
fall  into  religious  melancholia.  The  physicians  in- 
sisted that  she  must  not  be  allowed  to  remain  near 


3o6  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

the  jail;  she  was  unhappy  if  not  allowed  to  see 
Lucian  as  often  as  the  rules  of  the  institution  per- 
mitted, and  yet  she  came  away  from  each  visit 
increasingly  distraught. 

It  was  Lucian's  suggestion  that  she  come  to  Italy, 
and  although  at  first  she  refused  to  consider  the  idea, 
she  consented  at  last  because  he  said  it  would  make 
him  happier. 

'*  Remember  how  C5mis  loved  Assisi  and  La  Vema 
and  Greccio,  mother,'*  he  reminded  her.  *'  You  will 
feel  very  close  to  him  there." 

So  she  and  the  marchese  and  I  came  over  in 
February,  and  the  change  has  to  a  certain  extent 
restored  her  nervous  balance,  as  the  doctors  hoped 
it  would.  The  marchese  does  not  think  it  has ;  with 
his  violent  anti-clerical  tendencies  it  is  next  to 
impossible  for  him  to  regard  her  present  attitude 
towards  the  Roman  Church  as  sane.  But  I  am  sure 
that,  for  her,  health  lies  that  way.  I  shall  have  a 
hard  time  convincing  him,  but  I  must.  Lucian 
agrees  with  me.  His  antagonism  against  the  Church 
of  Rome,  though  quite  as  strong  as  the  marchese's, 
derives  from  a  different  philosophical  basis,  and  is 
only  a  part  of  his  general  contempt  for  all  organised 
Christianity.     Then,  too,  Lucian  is  a  poet. 

As  I  sit  here  in  the  loggia,  writing,  I  can  hear  the 
workmen  scraping  the  walls  of  the  long -disused 
oratory.  It  is  to  be  restored  to  its  sixteenth-century 
magnificence:  so  far  my  cousin  Pauline  carries  the 
marchese  with  her — especially  since  he  has  discovered 
that  the  whitewash  conceals  a  madonna  and  angels, 
possibly  a  genuine  Bonfigh. 


THE  GLEAM  307 

From  America,  our  prisoner  sends  us  joyous  assur- 
ance of  his  unfettered  spirit.  He  finished  his  long- 
delayed  Ode  to  Russian  Freedom  in  the  first  weeks 
of  his  imprisonment,  and  the  magazines  all  write  him 
that  it  is  a  splendid  poetic  achievement;  but  it  is 
not  timely,  just  now,  and  besides,  it  is  too  long. 
After  that  he  wrote  his  pamphlet  on  the  minimum 
wage,  and  now  he  has  begun  to  write  a  history  of 
Socialism.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  content  with 
that.  A  history  of  Socialism  by  a  poet  will  at  any 
rate  be  a  unique  contribution  to  the  Uterature  of  the 
movement. 

Occasionally  a  Httle  lyric,  written  as  it  were  in 
spite  of  himself,  finds  its  way  across  the  sea  to  com- 
fort me.  One  came  this  morning — an  Aubade.  The 
marchese  getting  a  glimpse  of  the  page  as  I  turned 
it,  said  with  a  smile : — 

"  Verses!  After  this  is  over  I  believe  he  will  settle 
down  and  practise  his  mdtier,  do  you  not?  " 

I  did  not  say  what  I  beUeved.  There  is  still  The 
Torch.  Uncle  Lew  and  Lazarus  and  Cuthbert  keep 
their  fingers  on  it;  but  they  are  in  a  minority  since 
we  reorganised  it  as  a  daily  and  increased  the  force. 
It  is  genuinely  a  party  organ  now,  and  is  becoming 
more  and  more  the  mouthpiece  of  the  younger 
Socialists,  the  great  van  of  the  Socialist  army;  a 
mixed  lot  they  are,  sons  and  daughters  of  immigrants, 
sons  and  daughters  of  privilege,  proletarians  and 
intellectuals,  with  youth  and  the  ideal  in  common. 
Slowly,  savagely,  persistently,  they  are  permeating 
the  Hfe  of  trade  and  the  intellectual  life  of  our  cities 
with   democracy,    and   choking   out   the   bourgeois 


3o8  THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT 

ideals  of  individualistic  greed.  This  "  dust  of  souls  ** 
does  indeed  "fly  into  the  light  with  trembling;** 
but  ever  and  again  it  emerges  "  with  prophecy." 

Lucian  and  I  are  pledged  to  keep  The  Torch  alight. 
And  Lucian  wiU  inevitably  go  into  politics.  That 
is  the  next  step,  I  suppose. 

Settle  down?  No;  the  Auhade  is  an  omen.  One 
doesn't  settle  down  with  a  dawn-song  on  one's  lips. 


THE   TEMPLE    PRESS,   PRINTERS,   LETCHWORTH 


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